Passacaglia
by aBeautifulWorld
Summary: Former title: 52. "Not everything is at it seems, and not everyone can be trusted... but that doesn't mean we can't try to make the world a better place." A collection of experimental stories exploring different aspects of the Guertena Art Museum and viewing the different events under a new light. P is for Parallels: The truth about parallel lives is that they will never meet.
1. A New Beginning

**AN:** To stop writer's block and help keep the writing flow going, I'm back with another series (because these are the only things I seem to be able to finish) of short snippets/ficlets which will try to explore different parts of the Guertena Art Museum or try to view different events in a new light. I aim only for the unique and interesting (pls help if I mess up lol). Rules on my profile. I don't own Ib :3

* * *

Week 1. A story entitled "A New Beginning"

* * *

 _ **A New Beginning**_

The first time he noticed it, he hadn't.

His new father did.

The boy had just come inside from the garden, nose stuck in a book when he accidentally collided with his stepfather. The burly man grabbed hold of the blond locks near the boy's forehead and seethed, holding up a familiar scrap of sketchbook paper a little too close to his face.

"What is this?"

Even at such a tender age, the boy had pride. Only the heavy breathing indicated his pain. He gritted his teeth to hold the whimpers in, keeping his silence, but didn't have enough courage at the time to meet his executioner's eye. He was just messing around, drawing silly things in between his lessons.

When his cerulean blue eyes finally focused on the drawing, he felt the breath in his lungs taken away.

He hadn't drawn _that._

"I… I didn't—"

"How dare you!"

Another backhand to the face.

Pain shot into his scalp as the boy was dragged by his hair across the floor and into his own room. The damn drawing that started all this was crumbled into a ball and thrown in too.

"No supper for you, boy. You will stay in here until you repent for your actions."

The door was slammed shut and silence filled the room, until the only occupant broke it with a sigh. He chuckled, straightened himself until he sat cross-legged and stretched to retrieve the crumpled drawing.

What did his mother even see in him?

Probably his endless amount of land and bottomless pockets.

Admittedly, he and his stepfather didn't have the best relationship in the whole world, but maybe he did cross a line depicting him as an ape man with an unnatural likeliness being hunted (by himself) in the wilderness. Unfolding the paper, Weiss Guertena stared hard at the picture, wondering just how the teeth-baring-fist-fighting gorilla from before was suddenly struck down and lay dying at the bottom of the page. There was smoke he knew he hadn't drawn in coming from the rifle and a devious smirk on the boy's sketchy face.

He was careless, leaving his sketchbook around for all to see.

He had put a lot into that particular drawing, channelling all his anger at his unfair treatment and the frustration from having his mother turn a blind eye into that single piece. He had put his whole soul into it, until what he could only imagine was transferred onto paper.

"Good job, buddy."

The boy in the paper turned his head ever so slowly and winked at the astonished boy sitting cross-legged on the floor. He could only blink back before he slowly crumpled the paper once more and threw it onto the other side of the room.

He laughed until his belly hurt, conjuring up endless possibilities if what he had just seen was true. Trying to smooth his wild curly locks with one hand, he sighed and smiled at the pitiful state he had come to.

He was surely growing mad.

But at least he could have fun escaping his daily hell.

* * *

 **AN:** Do tell if you're having fun (or not) by reviewing please ^o^ See you next Saturday x


	2. Listen to them, then prove them wrong

Week 2. A story about rising to a challenge.

* * *

 _ **Listen to them, then prove them wrong.**_

He remembers it so well.

They told him he didn't deserve to win, to succeed.

They told him his works were worth nothing and no one would buy them, that they were either too plain, too bizarre, or absolute rubbish.

And those critics didn't expect the awards.

They didn't expect the prestigious praises, the admiration and respect that only Weiss Guertena could gather with a single work whose beauty and mystery intrigued all.

He remembers the thin line on his stepfather's mouth that day at the award ceremony, the shadows under his eyes as people ignored the formerly important man for the stepson he used to beat as a hobby.

He remembers his mother's usually impassive face, still coldly beautiful and stoic, but he swore his heart stopped at the love swirling in her chocolate eyes. He remembers raising his wine glass at her, giving her a small smile as she raised her glass back, thinking back to all the times he thought she ignored him for riches, when all she did was sacrifice herself for him.

And the purple rage that swallowed his former critics, the people who used to laugh at him, the people who looked at him as nothing more than the mud under their shoes, was worth every single drop of his blood, sweat and tears.

He barely suppressed his grin at the time.

He remembers as he walks past his works, each piece reminding him of their conception, a mere shadow of his former existence. Even from beyond the grave, the remarks that spurred him on never ceased to echo in his ears. Opening a door, he finally reached his destination.

Adjusting the easel, he sat on the stool, picked up his palette and paintbrush and began work again.

He remembers how they laughed at him, made snide remarks about his art.

He smirks as he remembers the way their grandchildren and great grandchildren scream as they're torn apart in his own art museum, their terrified faces as he knocks on windows and locks the doors.

Who was laughing now?

* * *

 **AN:** Inspired a little by things that happened IRL. I just wanted to end this with a "Who's laughing now?!" but whoops somehow the ending turned a bit darker than I expected. It's short because I'm busy and exams are coming next week. Do tell if you're having fun (or not) by reviewing please ^o^ See you next Saturday x


	3. A is for: Anxious

**AN:** Hi, yes, I am alive. 15 days until exams and I'm a nervous ball of energy. 52 didn't work out quite as well as I thought it would so I'm restarting this piece using alphabets and choosing the prompts myself to jumpstart my creativity. Happy reading x

(Why do I always seem the most active when exams are coming OTL)

* * *

 _ **A is for: Anxious**_

She sent him messages every day.

They started talking over the phone when newly acquainted (mostly him chatting away and prompting her short replies) as they were living in different cities, separated by long distances and expensive train fees. They met only once again after parting at the art museum, Garry returning Ib's handkerchief with her stern and curious parents chaperoning the odd pair as they all enjoyed coffee and macarons.

When Ib was deemed mature and responsible enough to have her own cell phone, they switched to emails and the rest was history. Her parents were comfortable with the fact he remained only a pen pal and he was happy enough just to hear from her.

To know she was alright, to know she was coping. Even though the only common ground they shared was a nightmare that tried to put behind them years ago, he enjoyed supporting her on a day to day basis. Reading about her English assignment or the latest shenanigans her friends would get into reminded him that life would continue after everything, that there was always hope and a tomorrow to look forward to.

And if the messages came in the middle of the night as he lay in bed, sweating and heart pounding from the latest night terror, he was more than happy to call and sing her a soothing lullaby to fall back asleep. It would remind him that he had a friend somewhere out there in the world that he had to protect, that he was not alone through it all.

For someone so quiet in real life, she was not shy in the way she composed her messages. They were not only long, written with proper spelling, punctuation and grammar, they were full of emoji and kaomoji, decorating and embellishing every start and continuation of their conversations.

Ib was consistent, always. She remained the same way for years, which was why Garry started to get worried when he noticed her texts becoming shorter. From lengths that rivalled actual novel chapters, they started decreasing bit by bit until they were only five to six lines at any one time.

The kaomoji that she was so fond and he was amused by also started gradually disappearing over time.

Although he kept asking if everything was okay, Ib insisted she was, and that he was fretting over nothing.

The day she didn't send him any messages and didn't reply to his, he went into full panic mode.

He called a grand total of seventeen times before she finally answered his call.

"Garry? What's wrong?"

The man sank further into his couch and held the phone away from his face to let out a thankful sigh. "Ib, oh thank God. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, are _you_ okay?"

She sounded as she usually did, voice quiet yet tinkling.

"I…" He suddenly felt foolish. "Why, uh… didn't you text me today?"

There was a pregnant pause as Ib tried to formulate a reply. Garry ran a hand through his hair and watched the second hand of his clock tick by. It was four minutes to midnight. He knew from past messages she had a habit of going to bed around quarter past and drift off around half past midnight.

"Maybe I didn't have much to say."

He bit his lip and frowned. "You used to tell me what you had for breakfast."

"I skipped breakfast today."

"You could have told me that… I mean, you used to tell me everything." He knew he was behaving and talking irrationally, but somehow he suddenly couldn't bring himself to stop. "I mean, how am I supposed to know if you're alright if you don't tell me or if you don't reply to my messages? Then again, why didn't you reply to my messages? Are you sick, or busy with school? Is everything alright at home? Did something happen to your phone? If you don't like me anymore or feel uncomfortable talking to a weird guy like me then—"

"Are you okay, Garry?"

Her quiet voice stopped his tirade. He rubbed his burning face, squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment. "I'm not sure."

"I dropped my phone yesterday night in the bath. I've just switched it on. I thought I would text you tomorrow morning."

He gave her a relieved sigh. "Why didn't you call using your house phone to tell me?"

"I didn't know my messages were that important to you…?"

He heard a rustling on the other side of the line, a squeak of bed springs and more shuffling as Ib probably pulled her duvet over herself. He curled himself into a ball, feeling small inside.

"May I ask why they're getting shorter?"

"School's getting busier. Maybe I didn't have as much to say" she repeated.

He didn't really know what to say, falling sideways onto the soft cushions. "I'm sorry for being so clingy, Ib."

"What's wrong, Garry?"

He wondered what he was doing as an adult being so emotional towards a fifteen year old girl. He hadn't seen her in person in years either, the last time being when she was ten.

"For years, your calls and messages came like clockwork, no matter how busy we both got. Today got me worried, I guess they've kept me sane all this time. I needed to know you were alright."

There was another pause in the conversation. He wondered if the confession stunned her or repulsed her.

"Is our friendship really so fragile that it can't survive a day without contact?"

He winced. She was as forward as ever. "Of course not!"

"Then what are you worrying for, Garbear? This is why you don't have a girlfriend, silly worrywart."

"Please refrain from making comments about my relationship status." He smiled softly, both relieved and aggravated. "Sometimes I just… I know it's over but I can't help wonder if we're really out of the woods, if we're in the clear yet. Sometimes I swear I see a face looking over my shoulder in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. I get paranoid when the clocks stop ticking before realising they're just out of battery. Sometimes I look at my lighter and see… her."

He heard the sharp intake of her breath, no matter how quiet it was. They both had a moment of silence for her.

"You should go to bed soon."

He chuckled. "Who's the grown-up here?"

"It's been years, I think you deserve a break."

He rubbed his eyes. "Thanks."

"You should go to bed, Garry. Everything looks better when the sun comes up."

He rubbed his eyes harder, face screwing up for a second. "You're way too good for me, Ib."

"I know. And you know I love you too much, Garry."

He always tried not to read too much into it, perhaps the lack of face to face interaction gave her too much bravado for her own good.

"Goodnight, Ib."

"Goodnight, Garry."

She couldn't always send him messages every day, but he was a lot less anxious about those rare occasions from that day on.

* * *

 **AN:** Ah yes, fluffy IbGarry for comfort before we get to heavier things. AU is not going to be very common in this series because I'd like to focus more on scrutinising the game from different angles. Not my best piece but I chalk that up to my rusty writing skills (and sleepiness). Feel free to tell me what you think in a review *wink wonk* and also suggest one word prompts for all the other different letters because the only one I've thought of and wrote for is B. Try to avoid art work title from the game because I'd like to use those in a different fic *wink wonk*

Take care x


	4. B is for: Blue

**AN:** Highly experimental, I wanted to try a different type of prose. Btw listen to Yasupochi's Dear Mary while reading (it's on youtube). Enjoy x

* * *

 ** _B is for: Blue_**

It all started with a blue rose.

His blue, feathery coat.

Blue dolls.

A little girl with cerulean blue eyes that shone like the stars themselves, ever curious, ever enchanted.

Then there were the dark blue rooms, stages set for tragedy.

His lips tinged blue long after they've let out their last breath.

The young girl didn't want to leave him, but there had been no other choice.

Her heart swelled with sadness as she stared into cerulean blue, her newly discovered treasure confiscated by a sister she doesn't remember having.

Her gaze was too sharp to be human.

And no matter how many years pass by, no matter how many blue dresses the young girl turned young woman swaps for one that was larger, her so-called sister doesn't age a day.

Over time, the pieces began piecing together, facts regarded as fiction were accepted and a garden full of blue and purple flowers were made to honour a hazy memory.

Her parents don't notice. How could they when they were six feet under? Prematurely departing after a terrible car accident, they left the sisters to care for each other, never knowing the truth.

She looks up from the headstones into the cerulean blue eyes of the painting child and shudders, because behind those depths were nothing but a mystery, confusion and innocence and no sign of remorse.

x

The black cloud does not leave the young woman for many years.

Cerulean blue eyes filled with tears as they watched the world pass by, heedless of the fact she was frozen in time.

They've lost count of the numerous times they've moved, the numerous ways they've used to describe the nature of their relationship from friends to sisters to cousins to mother and daughter, too worried that someone may come along and ask too many questions.

Such a person came by, a man who seemed to favour blue wristbands and silver watches, breaking down their walls and invading their secrets and the little girl doesn't like him one bit, even if her opinion seemed disregarded.

The bride's wedding dress was white with light blue roses and the flower girl's dress was light blue with white roses.

They've also lost count of the number of times they've fought over the blue flowers dying in their different backyards, gardens, balconies, the older woman too busy with work and her own _real_ family and the younger girl spitefully ignoring them.

"I'm so sick of this!" she cried, icy blue locking her gaze on the stoic woman with lines starting to form around her eyes, "We were supposed to have fun, being together forever!"

The blue vase on the console table tipped over the edge and shattered as the little girl slammed her bedroom door too hard, the force of it reverberating through the apartment.

It was hours later when a slightly bigger girl with a blue ribbon in her short brown hair, only a few years older than the painting child's physical age, knocked on her door softly, offering a hug and warm meal if only the occupant would come out of her self-imposed isolation.

She couldn't help but see the beloved mother in the daughter, before everything went wrong and her favourite person in the whole world turned against her, so she unlocked the door and quickly pulled her by the blue hair ribbon just as she turned to leave.

Light blue skies turned grey as red dripped from her fists, the little girl standing in front of her second favourite person in the world who looked at her in both love and horror, her ribbon lost somewhere amongst moaning and bleeding high school boys.

x

The painting child often wondered why her first favourite person coughed so much these days, and stared curiously when her skin tinged blue under certain lighting.

When the results of hospital tests came to light, she stood at a corner of the room, watched the family break down and wondered not for the first time why humans were so fragile, and how merciless fate could be.

Inky blue liquid flowed from her finger as she accidentally cut herself whilst trying to be helpful in the kitchen, careful not to get it in the food or let the others see, they didn't need proof of the strangeness of her existence.

Especially the husband.

The last person in the household was not someone she was fond of, for he had stolen her sister's affections, reminding her of the man in the blue, feathery coat from ages past.

And yet, one day when the little girl was in the wrong place at the wrong time and screamed all the wrong things and came home black and blue from both bruises and dried liquid on her skin, the last and only person available in the household immediately rushed to her aid, warming her frozen heart and quickly became her third favourite person in the whole world.

Later they visited the hospital, making sure to bring along her favourite person's favourite blue polka dot mug and anything else that would make her stay more comfortable.

Cerulean eyes melted as they met her gaze, taking in the occasional light grey streaks that highlighted her hair and the maturity that decorated her face. Both apologised for years of hostility and regret, talking long into the morning, trying to make up for all their lost time.

When the black of the night was broken by the gentle rays of sunlight, the peaceful silence of the hospital ward was broken by the screams and sobs of a little girl.

x

She wore her blue flower girl dress to the funeral and clutched firmly onto the hands of her second and third favourite persons, gaze unseeing and lost in the memories of her very first friend.

The woman with the blue ribbon in her now long hair cried and held the painting close, promising her friendship and security and as many years of adventures as she could, noticing just how _faded_ the she looked compared to the exuberant vibrancy she always emitted.

Later that night, the older man with his loosened blue tie motioned the little girl to sit next to him in the kitchen with only the moonlight as their company, drinking in amiable silence together, wine for him, cranberry juice for her.

The little girl became weaker as the days, weeks, months passed, but she never once neglected the blue flowers in the garden despite her condition.

They moved once again, of course, somewhere far away where there were only flowers and hills for neighbours and the sky so impossibly vast, peaceful and calming.

As she crouched amongst them, admiring the new red rose beds that her third favourite person had added in their new house's back garden, her faux heart almost stopped when she saw two people she thought she would never see again in the distance.

The man with his blue, feathery coat regarded the little girl coolly with a small smile and she stood too fast, hurriedly bowing down in apology, learning compassion and guilt after decades of living amongst those who felt far more than she did and her tears fell onto the roses below.

Cerulean blue eyes widened as she felt a hand on her shoulder, familiar red sneakers and skirt coming into limited view of the ground.

"But… I haven't said goodbye yet," she whispered, thinking of her family, of the people who loved her, protected her, and treated the strange girl so kindly despite their bizarre circumstances. She wouldn't be able to repay their debt.

"It's alright, they'll understand," a soft voice replied.

The woman with the blue ribbon in her long hair came back from college to find her young friend curled up and still amongst the blue flowers of their garden, a blue rose in her hand, a smile on her lips.

Their garden would always bloom with red, blue and yellow flowers from that day on.

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 **AN:** Not entirely sure I like the ending but this has been great fun. I always did want to try the "What if Mary can't grow up?" idea because _wow_ the **angst.** Review please and wish me good luck for my make-up exams next week ;3 P.S. I still haven't thought of the other 23 letters of the alphabet so feel free to prompt me. "C" has already been suggested. Take care! x


	5. C is for: Comfort

**AN:** A friend wanted me to write about Garry comforting Ib but somehow my mind loves to twist things around and I found myself writing about Mary and Guertena _again smh._ Can't get enough for the angst. The two segments are completely unrelated, I just wanted to post both under the same prompt and concept.

* * *

 _ **C is for: Comfort**_

 _ **Guertena**_

She finds comfort in the dolls she lovingly sews, in the big sisters who dedicate time to play with her. She loves the fisherman for telling her enchanting stories of the "sea" and the old juggler who always gives great advice. Even though the mannequins and headless statues can't speak, they nudge her or pat her head in a way that offers something close to endearment.

She watches the fluffy clouds and twinkling stars in her father's peaceful works. She sits underneath the rather large painting of the cherry blossom tree and closes her eyes and pretends that it is a spring day and she is having a picnic with her friends and family, the breeze musing her hair and the pink petals finding themselves tangled in her locks.

Because she wants to believe.

She wants to think that Father left her all these portrait friends and landscape pieces _for her_ , as presents to make up for the fact that he isn't here. That somehow he was trying to apologize for conceiving her but not taking any responsibility for her.

She takes comfort in this demented world, forcibly if need be, and waits for the day Father comes and gives her a proper hug, gently hold her in his arms and make up for all the lonely times she's had to endure. She wants to meet him, to hear him say, "I'm home."

And to whisper back lovingly to her father, "Welcome home."

.: :.

 _ **Garry**_

They were both on the couch, the clock read 11:11 pm.

Ib dropped her lectures notes on the coffee table and leaned her head on his arm, exhausted, worried, feeling completely unprepared for the upcoming exams in a few short days. It seems never-ending in her school, exams after exams after exams and she sighed, letting gravity do its work and leaning almost all her weight on her best friend of five years.

How lucky he was to have already graduated from university, how lucky he was not to have to worry about silly things like exams and assignments. Whilst she had to study, he could be casually reading or some other casual, leisurely activity. The jealousy burned at the back of her throat.

Her chest felt heavy, her head hurt, she was just incredibly tired.

"I'm scared."

He flips the page of the book on his lap and held it up in one hand, the other slowly wrapping around her shoulder to pat her head.

"You've been through worst," he glances at her briefly with the corner of his eye. "Much worst than a few silly papers."

"Those _few silly papers_ will determine whether or not I can proceed to the following year or get stay behind a year. I haven't done enough... what if I... I'm _scared._ "

Garry finally closed his book and placed it on the arm of the sofa, turning to hold her against him properly. His long legs circled around her and he guided her head to fall into the nook between his neck and shoulder. Ib gave another heavy sigh and melted against him, breathing in his scent of vanilla and soap, letting his warmth wash away all the tension in her bones.

"Perspective, Ib. This isn't a life and death situation, we've been through worst. You'll get through this, no matter how _uncomfortable_ it may get, okay?"

"Hn."

"You'll just have to try your hardest with whatever you've got when the time comes." Garry nuzzled the top of her hair and smiled brightly when she finally gave a happier sort of sigh. "So do your best and I'll support you, whatever happens."

She gently kissed his skin and disentangled her limbs from his, giggling lightly when she saw him blushing to the tip of his ears. He awkwardly coughed and grabbed his book, trying to hide his face in it. Ib snorted in amusement and picked her notes back up.

"Okay, back to work."

* * *

 **AN:** I want a Garry hug too ;_; I know I'm trash for writing this but the stress is awful. Prompt for D please? I'll get to it after exams, wish me luck for this week ;_;


	6. D is for: Dilemma

**AN:** I'm pretty happy with the way this one turned out, I am a sucker for the abstract and unconventional afterall. Happy reading x

* * *

 _ **D is for: Dilemma**_

 _What about her, what about her?_

 _Her rose would be too fragile to be play with._

 _We've never had a guest that old, it would be interesting, to say the least._

Rich laughter rung through the hallways, followed by soft giggles, tinkling like chimes.

 _That child by Dark Figure? They both love cats._

 _Too young, far too young, they wouldn't get along. Remember the last time? Besides, her mother's too close._

 _Then how about that older brother over there for our older sister over here?_

 _He keeps staring at you._

 _This isn't about us, it's about the girl._

 _I should be the only one she needs, me, me, and me!_

 _You know her easily bored, capricious nature._

 _And we know how restlessness makes her too curious for her own good._

 _Finding a new toy is so hard._

 _Relax, they'll be our new toy too._

 _A boy and a girl, just like our deal with Master, then everyone's satisfied._

 _Then why don't we just drown those two lovebirds over there, they're pretty drawn to the Abyss of the Deep._

 _Let's not give the child any ideas about such intimate relations yet._

 _Do they have to be so bold in public? My, my, how scandalous._

 _I found him, I found him, our new toy!_

 _Who is it this time?_

 _Doesn't he have_ _ **such**_ _pretty hair?_

 _It... looks like a purple flower hanging upside down doesn't it?_

 _Boy, he sure is into The Hanged Man isn't he?_

 _Shall we give him a taste of it then…? Our despair?_

 _It's been so long, I've missed this rush, the thrill._

 _A new family just came in, a family of three. Hey, hey, doesn't that man look like—_

 _Isn't that—?_

 _It is._

 _Why does he have_ _ **Master's**_ _face?_

 _Look… that woman beside him._

 _Doesn't she look like—?_

 _She does._

Silence hung in the air, delicate, a fleeting sense of anxiousness coursing through the participants of the discussion.

 _Why is she here?_

 _How did she get out? Just how did she get out? It's been so long._

 _More importantly, why did she come back?_

 _Maybe she's drawn to him, us, home._

 _Do you thinks she remember us?_

 _Who can really say?_

 _Hey, hey, who's that little girl? She has your eyes too._

 _She's—_

 _Perfect._

 _They both are._

 _Let's go._

 _I can't wait to play._

* * *

 **AN:** Just like Blue, this piece was highly experimental. It's also a short exploration into the idea that the Fabricated World had some hand in selecting who goes in and comes out, a theory story I wanted to write out a long, long time ago called The Choice of the Gallery. I like how concise this came out though, since it's purely dialogue, and there's just the tiniest hint of who's talking and who they are talking about.

Fun fact: None of the characters above are OCs, they are all NPCs that Ib is able to talk to before sh*t goes down and she has to escape from a demonic gallery. I thought it would be cute to give them a nod as they are unnoticed and unappreciated by the fandom lol. Sure they're just supporting characters without even a name but I like how much effort Kouri puts in to give them dialogue, so they are still great.

Please tell me your thoughts, good or bad :3 Take care x


	7. Rule of Three

**AN:** Let's take a break from the alphabet stories. Originally posted on my tumblr for the 3 Sentence Fic meme, I wanted to compile these super tiny ficlets in one place lol. Basically for those who don't know, people gave me a pairing and an AU and I wrote a 3 sentence fic. Heh enjoy x

* * *

 ** _10-hour train ride!AU_**

Garry's eyes fluttered open as he felt Ib's head drop heavily against his shoulder, her body relaxing against his. The gentleman smiled, carefully wrapping an arm around the young lady to make sure she was more comfortable, then pressed his cheek against her silky hair.

The next three hours flew by compared to the previous seven and as the train ground to a halt, the two best friends had to reluctantly part from their warm embrace.

* * *

 _ **Pirate!AU**_

"Do he got the _booty_ , Captain?" her first mate Mary asked, a wide, feral grin on her face.

Captain Ib blinked at the question before glancing at their sailing master Garry, eyes flicking down, then towards the heavy chest of gold in his beautifully exposed arms.

"A-aye," Ib muttered, her cheeks stained a bright crimson, "He do."

* * *

 _ **Models!AU**_ (M)

The handsome model ran a hand through his hair and looked directly into the camera lens, his lone eye smoldering, his bottom lip gently teased by his teeth.

Ib forced back a snigger as the other models sighed dreamily at him, whispering among themselves the different things they wanted to do with him. As he changed into a different pose, the strap of his tank top shifted and revealed a small, bright red mark below his collarbone, silencing the crowd and making the camera girl grin even wider.

* * *

 _ **Actors!AU**_

"Stop blushing you two, this isn't even your first time!"

Ib and Garry both sighed at the harsh words of the director, before giving each other an encouraging smile. The stage crew started showering the two actors with "rain" from large hose pipes, the camera started rolling and Garry started passionately eating Ib's face, only to make her laugh hysterically and have the director screaming obscenities at them again.

* * *

 _ **I'll be the answer**_

As you stumble down dark hallways with metallic red paint blurring your already gray vision, clutching a near wilted rose in your tiny hand, the hollow abyss in your chest echoing with broken promises, find me.

Look for me in the warmth of the fake sunlight, in the gentle, pastel colours of the benevolent ones, in the achingly soft down of the pillows, the white comforter stained with tears and traces of a faraway place called home.

I'll be your answer when you reach out with your pleading hand and questions, I'll come running to greet you from where I am, I'm sorry I'm just a little late _._

* * *

 _ **At the end of the day**_

He placed the fresh set of nine red roses into the vase and set it on the counter top, delicate hands almost reverent in their action. Feeling a tug at his shirt, Garry graced the trembling little girl beside him with a strained smile, hoping his facade wouldn't crumble.

"Come now," he murmured quietly, "At the end of the day, we have to honor the sacrifice she made for us."

* * *

 **AN:** The last two were more prompt-like but oh well. I made a lot for Mikiryu from KLK and posted them in their own story called _In Another World, Maybe *_ shameless self promo* but I decided to post these IbGarry pieces here since 52 is already such a hot mess of a fic. Btw would anyone be interested if I opened up 3 sentence fic requests to insert between the alphabet stories? All you have to do is suggest AUs for me to write :3 x

Take care x

* * *

 **Extra notes:**

 **-** These were written last year so I'm quite mortified at how some turned out, and yet pleased with some of the others. Only fixed up the wording and grammar, everything else is relatively untouched.

- _Pirate!AU_ in my head would be super cute with Captain Ib, first mate Mary and sailing master Garry. Hunting for treasure and in the search for adventure :')

- _Models!AU_ was inspired by a series of fanart on Pixiv of Garry posing for the camera in different outfits. He looked so good in some it was criminal.

- _Actors!AU_ \- When I said "passionately eat" I meant Garry was playfully nipping at Ib's cheeks, chin, nose and going OMNOMNOM to get her to relax and focus. It just made the poor director even mad at these cute dorks. But I left it because I wasn't sure how to fix it without writing another sentence.

-Can anyone guess what happened in I'll be the answer? Or at least guess the Ib ending? :3

- _At the end of the day_ is a small nudge to a less popular fic of mine *more shameless self-promo* called Cygnet, a Mary/Garry story exploring their dynamic if Ib was somehow left behind (well, not _really_ but feel free to read it to clarify my point ;D).


	8. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse

**_4_**

* * *

 ** _Death_**

They weren't human, they weren't suppose to fall sick, or grow old, or... _die,_ especially not that.

The Lady in Red felt something akin to bile rise in her throat as she stared at the ashes on the ground, the only remnant of the only person in the gallery she didn't entirely despise, a myriad of emotions swirling deep in her fabricated heart.

She had somehow forgotten how easily they burned.

* * *

 ** _Famine_**

Her throat felt like parchment, her entire body absolutely drained. Famished, she was so famished.

But what was there to eat or drink for a little girl in a gallery full of paintings and statues, mischievous dolls and restless demons, all waiting to devour _her_?

* * *

 ** _War_**

They dared to defile his works, steal his precious children _and_ slander his good name?

Violent emotions splattered across the canvas, their colours dark and foreboding, their strokes forced, bold and sharp – a perfect illustration of his own inner turmoil.

Weiss Guertena gave one last flourish, stumbled back and fell onto the cold floor, completely spent but satisfied, eyeing the newly finished masterpiece that would finally end the never-ending feud.

* * *

 ** _Conquest_**

He had never quite... expected things to have turned out in such a way – trapped in his own personal hell where he was only a man knocking behind the glass windows, helpless to watch his conquering works run amok in _their_ own wonderland.

If there was anything the artist absolutely hated, it was loss of control and the accompanying despair.

Worst still were the pests that came in the form of visitors, they only solidified the guilt.

* * *

 **AN:** 4 is a number associated with bad luck so I took it that idea and ran away with it. The 4 horsemen of the apocalypse, tadaaa... in 3 sentences cos I wanted to challenge myself. This was seriously fun. And now it's back to the alphabets. Tell me your thoughts in a review please, see you on Saturday x

(Yeeee new update schedule: Tuesdays and Saturdays)


	9. All Your Five Senses

**AN:** Please read this with the Gone Girl OST Sugar storm playing in the background.

* * *

 ** _All Your 5 Senses_**

Hey, are you okay?

No no no don't freak out! Ouch! Oi, stop it! Ah, frik that hurt… you've got one hell of a right hook ugh. Look, I'm just trying to help, so there's no need to attack me. Heh, nah it's fine, I can understand why you'd freak out. I've been in the same situation before.

The name's Garry, by the way. Nice to meet you.

You look kind of pale, did I scare you? Hahaha, of course tough big boys like you don't get scared, silly me. But you must have had all sorts of trouble up until now. Stop giving me the stink-eye now, please. I'm like you, trapped in here, although for much longer. _Yes_ , I'm human. Goodness, you're jumpy. Reminds me of myself when I first arrived.

Hmm, I wonder when that was…

Anyways, let's work together from now on, shall we? Two brains are definitely better than one. It's best to keep your wits about you and your senses sharp in a cursed place like this gallery.

Well of course it's cursed, why else would we be here? Why is it…? Well, nevermind the why, let's not talk about this anymore.

 _He's_ probably listening.

C'mon, keep walking.

As I was saying, as someone who's been here far too long, it's best to be constantly vigilant— Look out for those claws! Jeez, I told you to be alert didn't I? They tend to reach out for your rose, so be careful.

You saw those signs, didn't you? That rose is now your life, be careful with it. And hold on to it more gently, the effects of losing your petals is rather... unpleasant, to say the least. Trust me, I know.

Keep your eyes peeled and watch for the signs. You'll never know if you'll find... _enlightenment!_

Ahahahahahahahaha, oh, haha, s-sorry, I just… hahaha.

Sorry, sorry, you'll never believe how many puns I've made from all the painting titles to keep myself entertained. And Guertena's pretty prolific, so there's _a lot._

And if you want to say anything too... controversial, let's say, best to keep your voice down. You may or may not believe me, but there are strained ears in this gallery, listening to all our conversations. And there's also a tattletale all too eager to share their discovered secrets.

Hey, hey, stop laughing! No, I am not paranoid. And I'm not _completely_ insane yet.

I told you, didn't I? It's been a long time since I've seen the other world. The only way I've lived is by keeping my rose safe.

Now, I was a scaredy cat once. And then I realised that the... living art here –pfffft, sorry, sorry— they can smell your fear. They can taste it in the air and hunt you down. Heeey, stop laughing at me! I'm speaking from experience here!

And once they get their hands on you... well...

Let's just say I'm still sore. And I have the bruises to prove it from the last time. They're not exactly gentle. Especially the Ladies. And the dolls. And the headless statues. Heh, pretty much everyone here has a touch coarse as stone.

Perv, stop leering.

Escape? Well, I did read a book here once, it said something rather interesting. Via a _trading of existence_ , the imaginary can become a reality... or something along those lines.

Hey, wanna know a secret?

I actually know someone that escaped from here.

Oi, hands off the jacket, punk! Jeez, violent _and_ unpredictable. Can you go five minutes without mocking or harassing me?

Yeah, I knew someone once. A little girl. Actually, two little girls. One of them was an angel. The other, not so. No, no, she was the spawn of a devil.

Ahahahahahahaha, oh man I'm so—I'm dying hahaha. Sorry it's just—bwahahaha, the devil, the devil! Sorry, no, no, I really am sorry, I didn't mean it.

Ahahaha, sorry. Where was I? Ah yes, her. She wanted to escape this place so much that she was willing to rip my rose into pieces to take my place in the other world.

And she succeeded, imagine that!

Ah, here we are, the gray area.

But I don't think she realised how creative those dolls of hers were when she left them behind. They like to play, you see, and one of them fiddled with my broken stem, dropped it into Eternal Blessing. Imagine my surprise when I woke up and found out those two left me here to _rot._

Oi, I said I was human. Don't give me such looks.

Come on, let's take a short break. We'll rest in the centre room.

Have a seat, Reserved Seat is very comfortable. Ahaha, don't mind the gaping hole in the wall, there was an incident a while back. Just sit back and relax.

The thing is, I didn't understand that little girl very much in the past, but I do now. Completely, in fact. Loneliness can get the better of you. Desperation makes you do the c- _ray-_ ziest things. But I'm not like her, mind you. I don't ask this Gallery for just any visitors, oh no. I've thought long and hard about how to do things the right way.

This world is pretty crazy itself. Did you know there's a special area that's pretty similar to the original museum? Took me ages to find too. I'm not sure how it works, but if you get real close, the paintings become windows. You can pretty much see and hear everything that goes on in them.

Yeah, that's right.

Whilst all the lovely gallery goers look at Guertena's artwork, they don't realise _I_ watch them behind the glass. And you, friend, are the worst sort human garbage I have seen around here. You don't think I noticed how that woman flinches every time you touch her, how you leer at her, how you whisper those deprived and revolting words into her ear?

Ahahahaha, oh _I'm_ misunderstanding the situation? So you're telling me that wasn't _fear_ in her eyes?

Well, whatever you say, trash. Ladies, if you please.

Oh don't look so surprised, there is a gaping hole in the wall.

Thank you Ladies, you're all fantastic.

Oh no no no, don't try to resist. You'll just hurt yourself. They've got quite a grip, Lady in Yellow especially is incredible. Broken bones take twice the time to heal here, even with the roses and vases. Trust me, I know.

Now where were we? Ah yes, so you'll be trapped here. For eternity, I should hope. You'll serve as excellent fat for this Cursed Gallery to chew on for a while. A few days or so and you'll wish you were never born.

After a while, everything will turn numb. You'll see things from my perspective. You'll get used to the voices. Unfortunately, that smell of rot never really goes away. That's your heart. And you can't scoop it out like these paintings would. You're too human for that.

Don't try the apples, trust me. They taste like wood. And don't take cigarettes from the Smoking Gentleman no matter how tempting, even for fun, those taste like paint. It's disgusting really.

Hey… don't cry. C'mon, you know I'm _kind of_ sorry about this, don't you?

But I've been here way too long.

It's either you or me, buddy. Think of this as purgatory. If and when you've learnt your lesson on how to treat another human being properly, then you can leave. Just do what I did. Read a few books, chat with some of the works. They have the best stories to tell. Make friends with this world. The Gallery won't listen to you if you aren't. You'll know when they stop trying to attack you. Could be months, could be years. Heck, considering how awful you are, it could be _decades._

Then you ask for a visitor. Only _one,_ do you understand?

There's… There's no need to involve innocent people into this. Watch the visitors carefully and pick the worst of the lot. And don't even hope to override my instructions, this world and I had an agreement. They come in, you get out.

And let the cycle repeat.

* * *

 **AN:** What is grammar though. What is this type of narrative perspective? I'm not entirely sure what I wrote but uhh… Yandere!Garry is best Garry ;)

For those who didn't know the story behind 52, I wanted to challenge myself to write consistently using a list made of 52 prompts, one for every week of the year. It didn't work, stuff happened. Some of the prompts were uninspiring too, so I decided to make my own prompts… and now I'm running out lol.

I need _dozens_ more prompts right now (yikes). You can suggest word prompts OR a 3 sentence fic OR challenge me to write certain types of stories/pairings OR ask for a deconstruction of popular theories on the game. I want to keep 52 as interesting as possible so please send me your suggestions :3 And if I start sounding repetitive, please feel free to tell me off. Take care x


	10. His Sixth Sense

**Warning:** This one has horror elements and disturbing imaginary, particularly towards the end.

* * *

 _ **His Sixth Sense**_

He was an artist prolific in nature and people naturally wondered at his unending inspiration.

How was such a man able to generate so many ideas in both quality and quantity out of thin air? How did his portraits look so realistic if he was not one to use models or references? How was he not tired of constant creation?

The answer was simple.

Weiss Guertena was a man of both extraordinary and extrasensory perception, although he could only announce the former reason proudly. Declaring the latter would only bring scorn to his already fragile and fickle legion of fans.

Strange occurrences were not all that strange in Guertena's childhood. Sudden chills in a room lit up by the summer sun, goosebumps from the feeling of being watched were part of the norm. He heard unusual, unexplainable sounds at night and saw visions no one else did by day.

At first it did make him a paranoid and jumpy child, prone to occasional bouts of hysteria, but he slowly learned to shrug off the cheap and cliché parlour tricks of the typically unseen. Coupled with his cold mother and no-nonsense stepfather, the process of becoming jaded by such events speed along quite nicely. By the winter of his twelfth year, Weiss Guertena was already hardened in the realm of the paranormal.

There were times when they did caught him off guard, but he didn't necessarily fear it anymore. He accepted it, channeled it through his art and work and used it to understand the world around him.

There was one event when visiting the ancestral home of his stepfather. As he sneaked into the library to retrieve a certain… _interesting_ (and not age-appropriate) book from a collection he recently discovered, he noticed his stepfather surrounded by a strange crowd.

The large, burly man sat quite comfortably in his favourite armchair by the fireplace, enjoying his reading material by the look on his face. Apparently unperturbed by the three pale figures practically breathing down his neck, he licked his thumb to turn the page.

The youngest of the group was a woman beaten black and blue, fingerprints decorating her beautiful neck. The old man beside her clutched at the flesh above his heart, gritting his teeth in what Guertena would imagine as excruciating pain. The eldest of the group was also the loudest, continuously weeping and shaking her head, hands cradling her head.

Finally noticing the staring of the no longer hiding teenager, his stepfather glanced over.

"What is it, boy?" he asked in a voice unusually void of any disdain, probably owing to his excellent mood.

The three figures glanced over at him too. Weiss Guertena shook his head and simply avoided eye contact. It was the first time in a long time that chills settled in his spine. He just hoped his lovely mother, now a queen in society, doesn't hold the same fate as any of the three; beaten, heart-broken, shattered and _hopeless_.

"Nothing, sir." He murmured and quickly stepped out.

The... people he saw didn't typically disturb him unless he engaged, so he played observer and kept his head down, walked away if they noticed him noticing them. It was a peaceful co-existence. Most of the time.

Years later, he supposed he shouldn't have all that been surprised when the newly completed Lady in Red winked at him from across the room. The artist blinked several times, placed his tools to the side and made his way towards her. Despite examining her long and hard, he didn't find a single deviation from the original way he painted her. He shook his head at his foolishness.

Now he was both haunted and insane. Fantastic.

When he was younger, there was an incident with his stepfather that convinced him that his drawings had a life of their own. But the rest of his sketches didn't _live_ up to his expectations and he forgot all about them.

So this wasn't the first time, but it certainly wouldn't be the last, knowing his terrible luck.

And he was right. After finishing His Dark Figure, his nights would be filled with a cat incessantly yowling and what sounded like paws scratching against the wooden floor, begging for food. Every time he opened the door to investigate, there was no cat. When the other tenants of the building started to complain about his _new pet_ , he made sure the art deal went as swiftly as possible.

The Coughing Man was even worse. It occurred whenever he was in the same room. Sometimes it was restrained, like a simple itch in the throat. Sometimes it was full on hacking, like he needed to need to clear his lungs of something that just wouldn't budge.

It came to a point his elderly neighbour decided to check up on him one day, bringing over a hot bowl of chicken soup, a basket of fruits and some aggressive advice about going to the hospital. The man himself was fit as a fiddle, and he suspected the rest of the apartment floor was too, so Weiss Guertena knew what was happening.

The artist gave a terse smile in response and accepted the free food. The old man gave a thin smile and departed with a wary look.

It appeared that he didn't just see ghosts, he could paint them too. After rushing his art deals, he wondered too late if he would be known for his haunted paintings. Waiting for even a hint of a word on the matter seemed fruitless however, and he could only conclude that the strange happenings occurred due to his presence. And for that he was somewhat thankful.

After some hard times and a stroke of bad luck, he moved to an even more run-down building. His room was sparse and served double as his studio. The only relief was the balcony with a view of the city below and the endless sky above. The reprieve however, turned out to be a curse as he was woken one night by screaming.

Looking out of his balcony, a man hung by his foot, struggling and swinging and begging for help and forgiveness. Guertena did not move from the bed, casually observing the scene before him. He knew it wasn't a real person. He was much too pale, his face disfigured by the dark, lacerating marks around the gaping holes where his eyes should have been. He gave a disinterested yawn and turned over, attempting to go back to sleep amidst all the noise.

He had touched the apparitions once before and that was a mistake carved in the form of a large scar on the side of his neck.

The next morning, he painted The Hanged Man.

So sometimes the unusual occurrences happened after he had painted. but mostly they served as his aforementioned inspiration. He didn't question why he had his abilities, simply using them to his benefit.

Weiss Guertena was a man who didn't use "real" models, only his extraordinary and extrasensory perception for his muse. He would observe and twist, observe and create, observe and try to understand the incredibly complex yet beautiful world around him.

* * *

 **AN:** Sorry if this one is not up to the usual standard, I haven't been feeling all that well lately and didn't edit this as much as I would have liked. So yeah, Guertena sees dead people apparently. Woohoo. I am not a squeamish person when it comes to blood and intestines but there is something about damage/injury to the eyes that freaks me out omg. Subtle reference to Chap 1 was not all that subtle lmao. Hope you guys feel better than I do, take care x


	11. E is for: Envy

**AN:** Warning! Lady in Red has quite the vocabulary :p

* * *

 ** _E is for: Envy_**

He took a long drag of the cigarette and blew the cloud of smoke away from the little girl that stood under his painting. She rocked on her heels, not at all bothered with how visibly uncomfortable he was, cerulean eyes gleaming in mischief.

"Why not?" her voice took on a whiny tone.

"Because," he drawled, desperately trying to preserve his gentlemanly facade, "I don't particularly care."

The child harrumphed and crossed her arms, looking over at the general direction of the star of their discussion. She grumbled in frustration and decidedly plopped down onto the soft red carpet, crossing her legs too.

"But don't you think she's suuuper pretty?"

"We are not debating her attractiveness here."

He discreetly sighed and rolled his sore shoulders, hoping she would eventually get the picture and leave. But this was Mary, and her stubbornness is her most prominent trait.

"She's always right here too, so you can visit her all the time!"

"Unfortunately."

Another drag, another sigh. The only thing he could remotely be happy about in this miserable existence was his never-ending cigarette. Every time he flicked off the ashes, the rest of the stick would slowly lengthen until it returned to the original size.

"C'mon, Smoky! Wouldn't it be fun?"

He calmly glared at her persistence and the weird nickname she seemed to favour, but Mary simply beamed back and took no heed.

"Unlike the other Ladies, I am unable to transverse outside of my frame. And even if that were possible, a promenade by the beach or around the park isn't. What activities would we partake in? How would our relationship even progress? Just trying to fathom how this entire dating ordeal would proceed gives me a throbbing headache."

She made a face. "Why do you like to use such big words?"

A dejected moan did escape past his lips this time and the Smoking Gentleman pinched the bridge of his nose at the migraine that _was_ starting to form. Patience, my good sir, patience. "It just wouldn't work, Mary."

He took another drag of his cigarette.

"Sure it will, I read all about it in this book with big sis! You and big sis go on a couple of fun dates, then after a year, get married, and a year after that, babies!"

And accidentally inhaled too much of the noxious smoke too fast, nearly hacking out his pseudo-lungs in surprise. Rich, velvety laughter made them both turn to the woman in her golden frame, leaning against a nearby wall. The Gentleman tipped his top hat at her and Mary rushed to get up to give her a hug.

"That's enough for today, darling." She cooed, petting the child's head. "How does a short nap with Lady in Blue sound like?"

"Boring," she pouted, "I don't need to sleep."

"You can still snuggle, and she'll play with your hair while you close eyes in the meantime."

Seeming to contemplate the proposal, the little girl gave a wide grin and nodded. "Okay!"

"Run along to Forsaken Shelter then, see you later."

She raced off, but not before giving her big sis another big hug and waving goodbye to the other disgruntled painting. The Lady in Red continued to giggle at the Smoking Gentleman as he scowled her way, refusing to hide his dissatisfaction any further.

"What sort of detestable literature did that overactive child insist you read to her this time?"

"Only her favourite sort of course, about a little girl and her family. And today's little girl has a big sister who falls in love and makes a family of her own."

He groaned softly, his skull was pounding by now. "So why did her little mind immediately jump to the two of us?"

She smirked and tipped herself off the wall, using her forearms to support her on the carpet. He gulped and immediately avoided looking at the... _enticing_ view she probably purposely presented him with.

"What, you don't think we match?"

"No, we do not."

"But your polite, passive-aggressive sass makes me so... _hot_."

He looked utterly unimpressed. "And your sauciness never fails to astound me, my fair Lady."

She laughed aloud and made herself more comfortable, allowing him to finally breathe properly. "You know you love me."

He scoffed. " _You_ already know that everyone loves you."

"Oh? Does that make you envious, that I'm a more famous painting than you were even when Master was alive?"

"It does not." He vehemently denied. "But I do worry about that child's curiousity. It can kill after all. Is reading about the other world wise considering her disposition?"

"It's not like I can stop her. Master was a huge reader and the other works tell me he's left books almost everywhere. Then she brings them to me."

"Still, one day that envy will get the best of her. She's been desperate as it is lately."

"If things get too out of hand, Master will intervene. It's happened before."

"If you say so." He shrugged, as if it wasn't any of his concern that the girl played with fire, and started flicking off the ashes of his cigarette. They seemed to disappear into the black ground. The Lady in Red yawned as if the topic bored her and soon a playful grin tugged at her lips.

"So how's old man Fisherman?"

His hand stilled.

Her grin resembled a predator's.

"I know for a fact that you visit the Juggler and Fisherman occasionally. You may not be able to step _out_ of your frame as you claimed, but you _can_ travel in-between them. Dating wouldn't be that big of a problem."

Turning a soft shade of pink, he uncharacteristically stuttered. "W-Well... Am I suppose to just step into your black void since _you_ can't travel between frames?"

"I can go back into mine," she winked, "And we'll have a _great_ time together."

The soft pink bloomed a bit brighter.

She propped herself up and crawled closer to the wall his frame was attached to, making him stiffen and trying to shift away from her.

"Relax," she lightly murmured, "I was just thinking. If the child is growing too envious again, shall we have some visitors come over again?"

"It would provide her some entertainment."

"And give some of us a distraction," she sighed. When he half-heartedly nodded, she suddenly perked up. "Want to come and help us decide the next two? You've never bothered before."

"Why should I?" he deadpanned. "It doesn't affect me. Unlike the others, I don't find entertainment in torturing them."

Her voice resumed its normal volume. "You're such a jealous man."

Puzzled was an understatement in describing the Smoking Gentleman's thoughts. He crossed his arms and raised a brow.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You act all grumpy and everyone thinks it's because you've been tasting that same cancer stick since your conception, but really, you're a bundle of envy in a top hat and purple suit."

"I'm quite certain my name is Smoking Gentleman and not Envy... unlike Worry, who actually does worry incessantly."

"Worry doesn't have an ego to worry about, so they proudly show their worrying. A gentleman is expected to be examplary, so you hide and fester all sorts of terrible emotions inside unlike the rest of us. You're rather difficult to read, but really _Smoky,_ how long have we been in the same exhibition area together?"

He took out a pocketwatch from his waistcoat and ignored her. "Are we quite finished yet?"

"Almost. You envy our darling Mary so you treat her indifferently. Your only entertainment is that single cigarette, so you're all alone and miserable while everyone else has fun with the visitors. And me? I _am_ beloved Mary's _beloved_ big sister, and my popularity far outranks your practically unknown ass, so instead of acting your name you act like I'm some ditzy seductress around here."

His faintly flustered expression proved to her he wasn't completely unaffected. "Your hypothesises and conclusions are both invalid, and are you not aware of your origins?"

"Hiding your envy behind a thick layer of snark? Honestly now, don't think I don't know what you and the older paintings gossip about, you cynical prick." She self-rightously tossed her long hair back and made to move away from him. "And you know we match, aside from my being superior to you. We're both observant, intelligent paintings with wits too sharp for anyone else and skins thick enough to stand each other."

Letting her words sink in, he glancely at her pensively. "Is living peacefully in solitude not an option?"

"There's enough solitude in this world as it is," she scoffed and looked back. "Now, will you or will you not come along for this selection with me?"

Grimacing at her aggressiveness, he relented. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

She winked. "It's very comfy in the void."

The Smoking Gentleman paused and shook his head before finally letting out a short chuckle at her antics. Then he stepped further into the borders of his pink frame and vanished, leaving only the black background behind.

* * *

 **AN:** After writing this, I somehow ship these two now? I call them... _RedSmoke_ pfffftttt. The Smoking Gentleman is a painting in the red area, in his own space similar to the Lady in Red. Although he's not a prominent figure, I really like him becos he reminds me of Garry (with all the theories that Garry smokes). So RedSmoke is... a twisted version of IbGarry? Pfftt I dunno.

Inter-painting travel sounds amazing tbh. It happened in-game between Fisherman and Hook (and the hook even changed size), so I'd like to stretch it a bit further and let some of the paintings have little chats amongst themselves. Oh and that " _It's happened before."_ line? Try making Garry crazy by failing the doll room and go take control of Mary. Now try reading her own entry in The Complete Works of Weiss Guertena.

So how was it? :3 Btw... were the last 3 chapters that bad? :c I didn't get a single response back on any of them and that really got me down lol, so I hope you guys like this longer and more humorous chapter enough to review.

Next one's coming on Tuesday ;3 Take care! x


	12. F is for: Fear

_**F is for: Fear**_

It wasn't that they feared _her._

Who would fear a cherubic painting of a nine year old with such big blue eyes and cute button nose? What could her charming giggles promise besides a bit of mischief and whole lot of curiosity?

They feared the tantrums and the consequences after going against her. The white head statues especially tended to stay far away during her fits after what happened to one of their own. The unfortunate bust still lied in the brown hallway, broken and bleeding with red paint from the multiple stabbings it took.

And it wasn't just her. One wrong move, one scowl of displeasure from the princess and one had to face punishment from the shade of the _Master_ himself.

Despite the occasional mishaps, things were generally pleasant as everyone worked hard to ensure her delight and amusement _always_. A fake smile here, a hug there, story time with crayons and dolls and all was well. But when _he_ came, there was no room for error, only a terror that resonated in the vestiges of their borrowed souls.

He was not afraid of fire, always carrying it in his pocket. He was not afraid of Master, and Master seemed suspiciously absent during those days. The inhabitants of Guertena's world had never tasted fear so potent.

When the princess went down in flames, a new king rose in her stead. A tyrant who wore the face of their visitor but rivaled demons and devils in cruelty. He lured the other little visitor back into their cold world, kept her locked and bounded like a bird in a cage made of interconnecting gallery exhibitions.

She did not suit their conditions, growing up to be a frail and small young woman. She almost reached the place where Master resided several times, but he would not allow her the luxury of the afterlife, taking pain-staking measures to ensure her survival.

Everyone was terrified of his violent mood swings, his temper even shorter than Mary's and his blood lust insatiable. But the little visitor that seemed so fragile before became the only one who dared to stand up to him then, even as he held her rose and life in his cruel hands.

Although he found pleasure in attempting to break her, there were times he found himself cracking under her calculated cruel words. Her innocence and naivety had morphed into spiteful shrewdness over the years. They would often try to stay away from those arguments too.

"I'm far superior to him! I've taken care of you, taught you, protected you, loved you! He couldn't even take care of himself!"

"My Garry was brilliant," they heard her whispered hotly back. " You're nothing but a fake."

He picked her up by the throat and slammed her against the wall, rage filling his expression.

She choked and fought to breath but remained unafraid, knowing no matter how much he hurt her, he would never purposely kill her. Why would he get rid of his favourite toy, after all? And if he did go too far one day, she had nothing left to lose.

They wondered what made her so defiant in the face of evil. What made her push forward even when all hope seemed lost? They've already lost a few of the Ladies and some of the cheeky dolls so brutally shredded before remained untouched along the hallway floors, white and bloody stuffing seemingly commemorating his reign of terror. They knew what the Juggler meant to her, how he comforted her as a child like a grandfather would. Despite his booming voice, he was probably the gentlest of the lot.

And she lost him to the Fake's fire too.

They had only ever seen pain, sorrow and rebelliousness in her eyes.

And he seemed to notice too.

They remembered the first time her pretty face twisted with fear. It was a day of unusual occurrences. The two were in Mary's Sketchbook, despite the Fake usually forbidding her from entering the area. He brought out something unexpected, something none of them thought they would see again. Stroking the beautiful, _healthy_ blue rose against his cheek, he smirked at the young woman. She swallowed thickly but refused to be fazed.

"It's a bluff."

"You're quite sure about that?"

"It's been years. I- It's a bluff… isn't it?" Her voice wobbled.

He viciously bit off more than half of the petals, a sudden pain-filled scream resounded in the air.

"Garry?!" she shrieked, looking left and right.

Ib jumped and tried to run to find its source, only to be stopped by his iron grip on her upper arm. He laughed as she struggled, tears falling freely down her face as she fell to her knees. "Oh my, I think that's the loudest I've ever heard you scream for me."

For the first time since she was trapped, despair and terror reigned her emotions.

"How... why...?"

Not giving the rose any care as he used the same hand to dig into his pockets, he took out Ib's rose and intertwined them before tucking the two flowers behind his ear.

"Funny enough, this hell still has a couple of _Eternal Blessings_. So don't forget, sweetness. Disobey me, and it's not just your life anymore."

They had never seen her eyes so bleak. He would often give her small rays of hope, a small reprieve from the sadness, then crush them swiftly underfoot. Even they weren't so inhumane. But he made a mistake amidst all the torture and torment, amusing himself with her misery.

He underestimated her.

Her spirit was strong, stronger than most of theirs combined. The girl was clever and persevered. She fought her fear of the Fake for the sake of her friend. She countered his violence with gentleness, his cruelty with kindness. She made him question himself, made them all think about things they never wanted to think about.

And soon, his trump card became hers.

They were not afraid of the girl like they were of Mary. They were not terrified like they were of the fabricated Fake visitor. But they were scared _for_ her.

Would she ever leave their world? What would happen to her body if she does after spending half her life here? What would be the fate of their world if and when she left after making so many irrevocable changes? Could she rescue her Prince locked in his tower? Could she even rescue herself? There were so many questions both she and they asked, and so little answers.

So when the time came for farewells, they watched with fearful eyes as she hesitantly stepped into the giant mural of a painting, bright white light engulfing her. They waited for what felt like eternity for the blinding light to finally fade. The golden frame had reappeared, but there was no sign of their... _friend._

It was a word foreign to them but one Mary absolutely adored. They felt the weight of it and the lightness all at once. She had become their first friend, and now she was gone. A Cursed Gallery and a little girl, such friendship was not meant to last.

They sighed a heavy sigh as a collective, fearful and curious of the future without their princess, the tyrant King or his caged bird. Nothing was certain, everything had changed.

* * *

 **AN:** This is a story that I plan to write out in full one day. I've always been fascinated with Fake!Garry and how he would interact with Ib and the other Guertena artworks. It's been on the backburner for years but I really want to write it. Look out for Stockholm in Fabrication one day! :3

(No, seriously, I am super curious about the gallery without Mary. What do you guys think? Would everything change? Or do they just carry on doing their own thing until eternity finishes? Will they even get anymore visitors since there's no need for further exchanges to get Mary outisde? Hmmmm… *archived and to be explored in future 52 chapter*)

I hope everyone's either doing well or busy having fun. It's been awful quiet lately *twiddles thumbs* Take care x


	13. G is for: Ghosts

_**G is for: Ghosts**_

The gallery was a graveyard, unmarked by tombstones yet littered with ghosts of the past.

Letters sprawled out on the blue carpeted floor, both taunting and cruel.

The torn Ant painting remained where it was stationed, bridging the gaping chasm of the green gallery, its muse both ignorant and fretting about its fate nearby.

The red hand print made a stark contrast against the yellow ceiling. David's replica remained shattered on the carpet amidst the boxes of old palettes. His treasure was long taken.

Six paintings of six figures hung on the wall of the Liar Room, but only one torn to pieces, bloodied and carved into beyond recognition.

The process of execution was done, yet the lethal blade had not meet its mark.

Blue petals, blood and shattered glass decorated the floor of the tiny room in the Red Area, the only occupant high with blood lust and fervent excitement for her escaped visitor.

"A man at last!" she giggled to herself, "A fine specimen of a man and a fine specimen of a flower. I wonder if he loves me, I wonder if he doesn't. I must have it. I must have him. If only I could open the door… I'll just have to wait, I'll wait forever if I have to!"

But not all these ghosts met a tragic end.

A once congested eye twinkled in delight in the middle of grey and drab walls. What was once lost was once again found and replaced, the red gem sparkling under low lights. And what was once a most grievous ceremony became blessed, along with its bride and groom.

But as life imitated the art, art also imitated life. The illusion of what would otherwise be a rather homely scene of a Reserved Seat for a Couple was shattered along with one of the walls of the room. Along with multiple mannequin heads scattered and smashed around the Gray Area.

One of them collecting the red paint dripping from the hanging mannequin head above it, a consequence of all the violence.

Empty vases marked the trail.

Flowers of jealousy forced a separation, thick stone vines with deadly thorns blocking and barring any attempt at a reunion there and then. Between the cracks in the floor and vines were hints of pink.

After that, there were so many smashed mannequin heads.

Writings on the walls.

Dolls ripped apart.

A forgotten yellow rose laying on the ground.

More blue petals littering the sketchbook, along with a few red ones.

And finally, the stereotypical representation of a ghost. Deathly pale, slumped over, hovering between the worldly life and the one after. Unlike most ghosts however, he is beautiful. Another beautiful soul taken too early and far too cruelly.

But the most prominent ghost in the gallery was in the room right above. Glass below a golden plaque, and a pile of ash surrounded by toys and picture books.

For what are ghosts if not tragic stories and painful memories? Scattered remnants of the past. Reminders of what was and what will never be.

And soon to be, in the mind of a traumatised little girl, locked away and forgotten.

* * *

 **AN:** I've been in a rather weird funk lately, and I think it shows in the writing... hope this isn't too disappointing :p


	14. H is for: Hope

_**H is for: Hope**_

Weiss Guertena was a dreamer, but of the rather pragmatic type. He indulged in fantasies, but made sure they blossomed using his own hands. As the years passed by and his fame spread out, he decided dreams were for the young and hopeful. Decades of suffering had worn him out.

He _used_ to have an abundance of hope.

His mother married a gorilla of a man, but the spark in her generally vacant eyes whenever she looked at his artwork displayed the fire still inside. He understood her all too perfectly without an exchange of words between them. She sacrificed herself for his benefit and he better damn appreciate it.

His peers sneered at his unconventional work, but he vowed to make them kneel in awe of his greatness one day. His unconventionality was showered with praise, his enigmatic style described as a strange but beautiful mixture of both realism and the abstract that brought intrigued to whoever saw them.

Perhaps hope isn't entirely appropriate a word. Perhaps _vengeance_ or the ambition to succeed independently without anyone's approval or help would be more accurate.

But there were certain things done that cannot be undone. The hands of time cannot reverse, no matter how desperate and fervent his prayers.

Realising his feelings too late for the woman of his dreams, snatched and taken far away by his own best friend. Their brittle bond severed over misunderstandings and overly large egos.

Marrying a greedy witch who masqueraded as the perfect lady of the house.

Centuries of fortune and hard-earned money from his own works gambled away in one night.

A damaged body from years of intoxication from the bottle.

And his biggest regret; an argument too close to the stairs, a second too late to reach for her hand, the death of his unborn child.

Some things never quite healed, leaving their scars. Some things lost could never be found again. The artist considered himself a damaged man, jaded and bitter and far too miserable for something as innocent as love and happiness.

His misery became his muse, his companion the paintbrush.

Until he met _her,_ a widow that society had also long cast aside. She was an enigma of a woman, who was both delicate as stained glass and strong as steel, gentle and firm, broken inside herself but healing all the same.

They were both aged, but with her he felt young again. And she cast aside his self-doubt, made him face his demons on his own terms, but always supported him by the side. He was regaining and nursing that fragile feeling that he thought he had long forgotten.

"Why do you put up with me?" he once asked her, relapsing back into the sadness. "I'm only a burden. I'll only let you down. I'll probably hurt you like the others."

"Now don't be so harsh on yourself," she easily rebuked him, passing him a hot cup of tea with a mock look of admonishment. The grin threatening to break the look made the man quietly chuckle to himself. "Sure not everything may be as it seems and not everyone can be trusted, but that doesn't mean we can't try to make the world a better place. Even if it's just for one person."

In tired eyes and a crinkled smile, he found a reason to smile once again. Getting along with her children was an awkward affair, but enjoyable once the effort bore fruit. Then, in the cry of a newborn babe, the chortles of an amused child, the warmth of his new grandson's hand, something stirred within him.

A vision of a girl from what felt like a lifetime ago appeared to him. Cerulean blue eyes like her mother and blond curly hair like her father. She was a reminder of the painful times, so he ignored her, or tried to. He watched her grow alongside his new family, until he could not longer resist and finally sat down to talk to her.

He paints her what he envisioned her to be, a cheerful, beautiful, irrevocably hopeful girl, a flower blooming in the darkness.

As he hands her over what little remains of the soul, he thought he saw her beaming a little brighter, eyes crinkling just a fraction further in mischief. Weiss Guertena hoped for her sake she was happy where she was despite the fact he wasn't by her side.

And despite everything, he hoped he would be able to see her soon too.

* * *

 **AN:** I didn't check this over too much so pls point out any mistakes if you find them. Yeah I kind of like making Guertena miserable whoops. Next Tuesday will be a double update too, hopefully *badum tss*

Quick question: What does the number 11 remind you of?

Dilemma, Envy, Fear, Ghost and Hope were all suggested by the wonderful _ **Lovissa** _ so please give her your love. Although some future chapters have already been pre-written/their prompts chosen, feel free to suggest more prompts and I'll see what I can do ;3 I'll post the prompts I need on my profile. Take care x


	15. Snow Mary and her Seven Dolls

**AN:** I originally wrote Snow Mary _for_ 52, but it morphed into something much bigger than I intended. It ended up as something I really wanted to show off by itself instead of being part of a collection, and so I will! It'll be under the same name, Snow Mary and her Seven Dolls, and I would really appreciate it if you would read the full story later. For now, here's an extract of the beginning hohoho (so I don't break the flow of this collection or any FFN rules haha). Happy reading!

* * *

 _ **Snow Mary and her Seven Dolls**_

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a rather eccentric King and his small kingdom. He did not take a Queen by his side, but he did have a beautiful Princess instead. Despite his eccentricities and strange family circumstances, he was a fair ruler who was loved by his loyal subjects. His reign was peaceful, and he was known for his generosity with trade and amicable ways.

The King was also a talented painter who had a magical paintbrush. With this magical paintbrush, he could wholeheartedly paint any object on a large canvas and it would come to life with a touch of his fingers. However, the price of this ability was a part of his soul, so he could only use this ability sparingly and in secret. Very few knew of his secret.

Everyone admired the strange King, but he grew frail with time. As the years slowly passed, his health sharply declined until he could no longer even appear in court to hear the troubles of his people. Before he passed away, he bequeathed his kingdom and the secret paintbrush to his young daughter and only child, Snow Mary.

Snow Mary was a beautiful girl with long golden hair, ivory skin as fair as snow and eyes that reflected the sky. Many were envious of her almost unnatural beauty and resentful of her position of power despite her tender age. Many were unsatisfied, but there was no one else to take over the throne. One of which included the Queen of Hearts, one of the old King's consorts and trade partners. She was so close to convincing the old King to marry her, and felt cheated out of a potential country to rule over.

However, the Queen of Hearts was as patient was she was cunning. She visited the kingdom often and befriended the innocent and naïve Snow Mary. Gaining the trust of the child, she slowly convinced her of raising the taxes and implementing certain policies, making sure to disguise the fact that the citizens were suffering.

Unfair laws and bad decisions shook the land while the Queen of Hearts benefited from all the unrest. She played her role well, soothing the child and comforting her when the other court advisers spoke harshly against her. She was the angelic, motherly figure in a big world ran by big, scary men with monstrous voices who only knew how to criticize, not to inform or help.

"Why do they hate me so?" Snow Mary cried, hugging the Queen of Hearts and sobbing her heart out. "I'm doing everything as you've told me."

"It's alright, child," she stroked the girl's hair, fighting back the victorious smile, "They'll come to see reason soon enough."

Although Snow Mary tried her best as a ruler, she was too immature and inexperienced to see things clearly. She didn't think about the long-term consequences and simply grasped at immediate solutions. Despite the King being her father, she didn't think she belonged on the throne. The stress of ruling the kingdom consumed her, the longing to be free ran deep in her bones.

One day, things escalated too far.

* * *

 **AN:** Sorry about this, but please read the full story when I post it later :3 Like I said, it became much, much bigger than intended and taking much longer than I anticipated to finish editing. I'm really proud of it because I don't usually write this sort of AU and I find this style somewhat challenging. Making sure it really flows and incorporating different elements of both Ib and Snow White is not easy.

I should be done soon :3c I'm feeling excited haha, take care x


	16. Lucky Number Eight

**_Lucky Number 8_**

The woman wrapped her cardigan closer to her as she stared at the light drizzle outside the kitchen window. Taking a sip of the hot mug of tea in her hand, she gave a short huff of amusement and softly poked at the little home-made ghost doll hanging upside down from the windowsill. The doll had a cute little face drawn in.

"Seems like your little prayer worked, Ib."

The young girl having breakfast on the kitchen table gave her mother a grin full of cereal. The woman laughed at her antics before a piercing and girly scream shot through the room. The two looked at each other before they looked upwards, unfazed. They were only curious about the cause of it this time.

"Mama! Ib!"

"Oh dear."

Her daughter could only giggle.

"S-s-spider!"

The woman groaned, placing her mug on the table and making her way upstairs sluggishly. "Coming!"

"Don't kill it, mama!" the child suddenly exclaimed, making the woman pause in her tracks. "It's good luck to find a spider in the morning!"

"Um," she made a face before continuing to help the terrified man upstairs. "If you say so, dear."

Ib finished off the last of her cereal before taking the bowl to the sink and washing it. She was too nervous to wait patiently in her seat for her parents to come back downstairs. Rearranging the contents of her bag on the chair next to her again and again, her head shot up when her parents came back to the breakfast table together.

Her mother had a scrunched up expression, a cross between amusement and exasperation, as she patted her father's back. "There, there."

"It was huge, Ib." Half-sobbing into his hands, he shivered at the memory of the giant spider invading his shower. "I thought I would die if your mamabear didn't save me."

"No need to make such a big fuss, papabear." She sat down disgruntled and slightly flushed. "You seemed just fine earlier."

Ib ignored the lovey-dovey nicknames and looked carefully at her mother, worrying her lip. "You didn't kill it, right? They're lucky..."

Her parents looked at each other before smiling and shrugging their shoulders.

"I scooped it up and threw it outside, don't worry."

Her father poured himself some coffee and sighed, scooping up some scrambled eggs onto his plate. "Since when did you get so superstitious, dear?"

The child simply gave him a shy smile and said nothing.

"Well, whatever makes you feel better, I suppose." He stifled a yawn before taking a sip of coffee and giving her a beaming smile. "So, what are you planning to do this beautiful, rainy Summer morning?"

"I'm going to hunt for a four-leaf clover outside. Maybe try to find a ladybug too."

"In this weather?" She nodded her head with such conviction that her father couldn't help but cheer her on. "Okay, but then why did you wish for rain if you wanted to go outside?"

"The sun is too hot."

He couldn't help but laugh at the sheer ingenuity of the statement. "Alright, take care of yourself. Have a good day."

"How about you, papa?"

"I'll be boring and just read a book for now. Maybe cuddle up to your mother." Sitting next to him, she softly smacked his arm. "Ah, I hope there won't be any thunder later. I'm really not a big fan of them."

"I'll leave an acorn by the windowsill then."

"Ah… thanks?"

Her mother finished nibbling on her toast and delicately patted her face clean. "Got everything you need? All the important things?"

Digging into her small bag, she fished out her set of three keys, a little charm and elephant keychain attached, along with her beloved handkerchief. Her mother nodded, satisfied. Just as she finished putting her things away, the doorbell rang. An excited grin broke out on Ib's face. Her mother shook her head in amusement.

"Remember your raincoat and boots. And say hello to Garry for us, bring him around for lunch."

She kissed her parents goodbye. "Okay, I will, see you."

Her father pulled her into a quick hug. "Good luck on your quest, dear."

Racing off, her parents looked at each other in concern. The man sighed. Little girls were such complex miniature people. "Is it just me, or has she been like this since we took her to that museum a few weeks back."

"I'm sure it'll pass." Spreading jam on another piece of toast, the woman paused briefly, contemplating a thought. She frowned. "Maybe. Hopefully."

* * *

 **AN:** East Asian superstitions depict 4 as unlucky and 8 as lucky ;3 So let's roll with that. I dunno what this is, a possible aftermath to a bad experience for Ib? Maybe, haha.

Cultural context: The little ghost figure by the window is a teru teru bozu, made and hung to wish for good/bad weather. The little charm is an omamori, a sealed brocade bag with a blessing inside sold at shrines and temples in Japan. There are 8 lucky charms overall in this chapter, see if you can spot them all. Sorry for the late update, take care x


	17. The Nine Muses

_**The Nine Muses**_

Garry was, despite all appearances, a giant nerd with a passion for books. He loved everything from the aesthetics of beautifully bounded leather tomes to the musky smell of old pages and the crisp sounds as he carefully turned them. After finally slowing down, he was pleasantly surprised to find a wide array of interesting book titles in their little room in such a cursed gallery.

He yawned as quietly as he could, tempted to sleep but wary at the same time. It would be irresponsible of him to leave a defenseless little girl unguarded just in case their safe room wasn't all that safe. He had already pushed her too hard as it is. Tucking his coat under the sleeping child's chin, he went to the other side of the bookcases to give her some privacy and browse through the selection of titles.

There were books about art (no surprise there), its theory and even philosophy. One that instantly caught the young man's eye was about Greek mythology. He grabbed the book and flipped through swiftly, stopping at a random page. His lips quirked at the subject content.

 _The nine muses are thought to be water nymphs and daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. Some scholars debate that they are primordial goddesses instead, daughters of the Titans Uranus and Gaea. Regardless, they are the Greek Goddesses of inspiration._

He half debated to put the book down, his hands already full of the supernatural, but continued reading regardless.

 _Invoked at the begging of lyrical poems, such as Homer's epics, the Muses were thought to give inspiration to the writer or speak through the poet's words._

Garry finally smiled at that, wondering if artists invoked the Muses too. They must have as Guertena seemed rather prolific, and the range of his artworks was vast, at least from what Garry could see at the normal gallery before they got into this whole mess.

Did Ourania, lover of astronomy, help him out as he imitated the stars and celestial bodies in his works? Did he call on Thalia, the protector of comedy and pastoral poetry, as he painted the peaceful and idyllic landscapes? Did he consult Melpomeme, goddess of tragedy herself, as he carved out his darker pieces?

Or did he simply look back with Clio and took his own life story as a inspiration?

Garry looked up from the book and gazed at the mystique of the Untitled painting, trying to settle down his thoughts as he read. He questioned if it had a deeper meaning, or if Guertena just had an awful sense of humour.

Still, Garry himself liked to depend on Euterpe, protector of lyric poetry, and Terpsichore when choreographing dance sequences in his mother's studio. He just never put a sacred name to those flashes of inspiration.

The young man did not give a label to his religious beliefs, but he wondered if the Muses did exist, would they be sad because most people did not remember them? Did they hold back inspiration, causing millions to suffer from writers block and art blocks and other blocks out of spite because they are no longer invoked? He would be sad if he was in their position too.

Polyminia, protector of sacred poetry, must be bored out of her mind what with the increasing number of agnostics and atheists. Despite being the protector of love, Erato must be heartbroken not to be invited to all the weddings of the world.

There was a shuffling on the other side of the bookcases.

"Ah." Garry snapped out of his daydream, placing the book on the shelves to make his way to the child. Bending down on one knee so they were at the same eye-level, he gave the girl a gentle smile. "Morning, Ib. How are you feeling?"

She looked down and clutched his jacket in her little hands, bottom lip visibly trembling. "I had a nightmare."

"I see... You poor thing, I can't say I'm surprised," he sighed. "Being exposed to such frightful sights, you know? I guess it's good you woke up, I'm sorry I didn't notice earlier."

He really was awful with taking care of children. Then, a brilliant idea hit him. "Ib, would you take a look the pocket of that coat?"

The child dug around and found his lemon candy, and just as he had hoped, perked up a bit. He grinned a bit wider, trying to be positive for the both of them. "You can have that, feel free to eat it. Let's rest here a while longer before we set out again."

As Ib got up to look around the room, Garry went back to his book and contemplated the last muse.

 _Calliope was considered the superior muse, accompanying Kings and Princes, imposing justice and serenity. She was the protector of heroic poems and a myth once told the story of how Homer asked from Calliope herself to inspire him, eventually writing Iliad and Odyssey._

He closed his eyes. If he were ever to write about his journey here, he would be sure to invoke Calliope too before he started. She'd surely be impressed with both him and Ib for making it through such an ordeal.

* * *

 **AN:** Garbear is a nerd and no one can stop me. Btw I hope you guys have started seeing the patterns in these chapters :P After our rocky start (I shifted some chapters around), there will be 4 Alphabet chapters followed by 4 'Number' chapters. Yep, numbers can serve as inspiration too ;3 Take care x

Sources if you want to read more on this topic: greekmyths-greekmythology DOT com and greekmythology DOT com


	18. T Minus Ten

_**T Minus Ten**_

Gathering the numerous boxes around in a semi-circular fashion, Mary stationed her dolls behind them, referencing the book in her hand every so often. She had even gone through the effort of cutting them in half, making the old worn-out boxes before appear like little cubicles for her hardworking 'scientist' dolls.

Seemingly satisfied with her work, Mary raced off to her own rocket box, complete with a blanket seat, and lay on her back, legs resting against the wall. Her dress fell down to reveal her long black socks and fluffy bloomers, but she ignored them. There was no one to be embarrassed by.

"T minus ten seconds!" Mary screamed, almost bouncing in excitement.

She turned her head back to grin at her dolls and give them a heads up, and the dolls bounced up and down as they waved back.

"Nine!"

She started pressing random buttons on her imaginary control panel. The doll got busy on their end too.

"Eight!"

Inspecting her glass monitor, she checked to see if everything was going to plan, like the book said, whatever that meant.

"Seven!"

Oh, she was suppose to wear that thing on her head, a helmet! She better double check that too.

"Six!"

She adjusted the blanket making up her seat, making sure it was comfortable for the long journey ahead.

"Five!

Content with all the preparations done, she placed her arms on the armrest and firmly fixed her eyes on the ceiling.

"Four!"

She wondered why they had such long countdowns, it was _so_ boring.

"Three! Two! One!"

Double-checking the book by her side, she began making as much noise as she could with her mouth, trying to imitate what she would imagine a rocket launch-off sounded like. Her dolls rushed over from their own cubicles to her box and shook as hard as their little plushie arms could manage until the noise came to an abrupt stop.

"Houston, we have lift-off!"

The dolls danced for joy. Mary cheered at their success and scrambled to get out of her box, grinning and laughing and waving at the stunned Lady in Red who was propping herself up near the open door.

The woman could only stare blankly at her, slack-jawed and utterly perplexed. "Who's Houston?"

Her tone of voice suddenly dampened Mary's excitement. "Uh, I dunno but I read it in a book! About the moon! And space! And apparently there are these huge things called rockets that go to the moon and, and, and—"

"I have… no idea what you're talking about, dear."

x

He debated to himself whether it was worth the effort to ask her what was the matter when she had already wound herself up into such a state. The Lady strolled aimlessly through their small section of the gallery, muttering to herself when she suddenly stopped right in front of his line of vision. A stricken look came over her. The painting sighed in resignation.

"You seem troubled, Lady in Red. What's causing you so much grief?"

Turning towards him almost mechanically, she blinked herself out of her stupor. Anger took over her expression instead. "What else could it be if it wasn't those nasty humans?"

"I beg your pardon?"

She groaned and crawled towards the Smoking Gentleman. His cigarette looked so tempting, and she had read that nicotine was apparently soothing for the nerves. Unfortunately, his glass was completely solid for her, there was no way she could steal it for a few puffs.

"Do you know what a rocket is?"

He raised a brow at the question. "I beg your pardon?"

"Exactly. I think one of the past visitors left a book behind. That child usually asks me to read for her, but this time she decided to be a 'grown up'," she emphasized with invisible quote marks, "and read it herself. So I have no idea what kind of ideas its putting in her head. And she wont show me so I cant confiscate it."

"You've said so before, it's not like you can stop her. That Master will intervene and so on and so forth, everything _you've_ said in the past."

She hissed at him. "This is _different_ , Smoke."

"Red, relax."

"I'm…" she swallowed thickly. "I just think that we don't have a lot of time anymore. She's growing up too fast."

He looked up and blew out a puff of smoke. Leaving the cigarette in his mouth, the gentleman took off his top hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Given her nature, it has always been inevitable and only natural that she would be attracted to the other world. She was _the_ last painting, sublime and beautiful. However, she's _also_ the closest to being an actual person out of all of us, what with the amount of spirit Master put in her."

"You don't need to tell me that. The only working clock in this world is ticking, and the countdown has probably started."

He bit a scathing remark back at her sudden pout, genuine concern reflecting clearly from her eyes. Lady in Red was an expressive painting, yet it moved him to see her wearing such a rare and _human_ emotion on her painted face.

"You've done well as her big sister." She looked up at the rare compliment, but his soft gaze was not admiring or loving as she's used to. It was pitying. "However, it's time to let her go."

She sneered.

It burned her.

* * *

 **AN:** Omg Mary wanting to be an astronaut and explore space gives me life. She's a bundle of curiosity about the human world, why wouldn't it eventually expand into the great unknown? Yes please. Human!Mary imho has so much potential (if you want to read the Nurse!Mary I've written before… *cough* Rosemary Lighter *cough*), Gallery!Mary just hasn't explored all her options yet hohoho.

RedSmoke lives again ;3 After writing the first segment I was like, ' _Wait a minute_ , _this stuff is all wayyy after Guertena's time, what kind of book is Mary reading?'_ which lead to my crack ship acting like over-protective parents lol... Are they too human for sentient artwork? What do you think? :3 Take care x

P.S. Nicotine is bad for your health, pls don't follow RedSmoke's example :3


	19. I is for: Insincerity

**AN:** Inspired by **_Cataquack Warrior's_** amazing prompt, Liars Room*. Thank you! Hope I did this justice for you :P

* * *

 ** _I is for: Insincerity_**

What does one call those who break their promise? Those who go back on their word, claiming to speak the truth but maliciously offer the exact opposite when they open their mouths?

In a room full of these sort of people, there was an odd one out. They are the rare and valiant one, the treasure that should have been protected, but wasn't. There they stood, open and vulnerable, bloodied and humiliated, ripped to shreds by both knifes and words.

"Liar."

"Liar!"

 _"_ _ **Liar!"**_

What is the truth? – A conformity to reality.

Then what are lies? –A deviation from the truth, falsehood intending to trick and deceive.

But what if the two mingled and tangled and bounded together, accidental or otherwise, until they could no longer be recognised from one another, what would happen then?

*What if a person lied to themselves, making the truth out to be a lie, and believing their lies to be the truth? What if they believed in it long enough that it becomes the truth, a conformity to reality?

"We'll be fine," he once whispered to his lover, straining to keep his smile in place amidst all their misery. "Times are a little hard, but we're going to be just fine."

Kind lies, sweet lies often coated his tongue, comforting yet heavy. He painted pictures of sunshine and happiness, halcyon skies and marvelous nights, because what else could he do?

A world of painted lies became his home, his shelter.

He never, _never_ intended to harm anyone with them, least of all _her_. When his treasure spoke the truth and was shamed for it, he could only stand by paralysed.

'I never meant for this to happen. She... she shouldn't have spoken in the first place _._ ' He looked away, unable to face those soft doe eyes as she turned to face _him_. _'_ I gave her words she wasn't suppose to give anyone else, so this is fair play... this is... a consequence of _her_ own actions... it's… _not_ my fault… _'_

He regrets everything but does nothing to recompense. He is a liar, a hypocrite, a thief of his lover's trust. But he cannot help it, he reasons.

This is his world, and lies are his reality.

* * *

AN: We haven't had a short, experimental one in a while :3c I have no idea what this is lol (liar). Btw Snow Mary is out if you're interested :3 (but I need to edit it a bit so please wait until Chapter 2 comes out tomorrow lol.) And there's also an Ib/Garry fluffy one-shot called Stutters and Mutters :3 Take care x


	20. J is for: Joy

**AN:** My imagination ran wild and I couldn't stop writing and tying things in (again). So, similar to Snow Mary, this is an extract of something bigger that I am writing. However, this time it is **complete on its own** if you're not up for reading the full thing.

Again, my thanks go to **_Cataquack Warrior_** for sharing their amazing ideas with me :3 Happy reading! x

* * *

 ** _J is for: Joy_**

After ten years of countless visits, hopeful praying and silent pleading, the window to the other world finally appeared again. The two friends didn't know what to expect after such a long time, and what greeted them as they descended down the stairs left them speechless.

The Cursed gallery from before, full of wicked mischief and misery, felt… _different_. And down the hall barely two meters away from them was the girl they had been looking for all this time leaning against the wall, almost seeming like she was waiting for them. The two stood still, unable to tear their eyes away from her. Even after all this time, she was still just a child.

The little girl gave them both a soft smile, waving at them timidly. "Mary, Garry... It's been a while."

The younger of the two friends took a step forward, tears in her eyes, then rushed the rest of the way, falling on her knees to embrace the child. She grinned a wider and hugged back. Garry went to kneel down besides the two and hugged them both. They basked in the moment, in the love and warmth of a reunion after an entire decade.

"Ib..." the older girl whispered, before pulling back and looking at her closely. Her garnet eyes sparkled, she was still fair and a little skinny. The little girl could only shyly grin as the other girl cupped her face, and a terrified look came over her. "You're..."

"You're so tall now, Mary."

"Ib..."

"...and super pretty too. Did you get to do everything you told me you wanted to do?"

Mary sobbed, placing a hand over her mouth to stop the ugly sounds. "Not like this, not without you. I didn't mean to... I didn't—couldn't—I'm sorry Ib, I'm so sorry."

Garry stroked the top of the little girl's hair and then caressed the soft skin of her cheek. Ib looked up at his gasp, his hand pulling back sharply. He gritted his teeth, his chest hurting at his discovery. Ib looked back at Mary as she held her by the shoulders. "You shouldn't be sorry, I was the one pushing you after all."

"Ib..." he whispered. "You're cold."

The smile on her face seemed frozen as she gave a small resigned sigh. "Yeah."

Mary took a deep breath and sat on her haunches, tears flowing freely down her face. The pieces of the puzzle connected in her mind and she resisted the urge to sob harder. "Since I turned human..."

"Mm-hm."

"...You became a painting?"

She paused before answering. "That's right."

Mary and Garry turned to each other, a multitude of thoughts racing, but the blame settled themselves firmly on their own shoulders. In their mind, Ib had suffered because of their own mistakes, Garry for being too quick to jump in and Mary for not pulling her in too.

"But it's okay." They looked back to Ib and she smiled again. She seemed to smile and talk very easily now. "It's fun here. The other paintings are nice to me, and we play everyday."

Garry gave her a look of horror and Mary kept her head down, memories of those peaceful and carefree times flashing in her mind once more.

"But Ib—"

"It's okay, really. Now that I'm a painting, I don't get sick, or grow old, or… anyways, I can read, draw, chat with the other paintings. I'm fine here, I really am."

Garry placed a hand on her shoulder.

"We came to get you back."

She paused and looked away from him. "I miss you both too but... I'm not going back."

" _Ib!"_

" _What?"_

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, and thank you, but I'm staying right here. It's not so bad when you get used to it, right Mary?"

"Ib..."

Garry ran a hand through his hair with an overwhelming urge to cry. Mary and Ib looked at each other with a new understanding, silent as the man paced about. Ib took Mary's hand and caught Garry's too, grabbing his attention quickly.

"Would you like a tour of the new gallery? I'll show you my painting too."

They could see how much had changed over the years, and how much hadn't. Somehow, the heavy colours in the past seemed lighter, the atmosphere seemed brighter and there was a visible sense of ease around them. It was like Ib had breathed new sense of life and colour into the gallery.

There weren't any locked doors either. Garry suddenly remembered that he and Mary hadn't taken their roses but Ib shook her head, reassuring him they were still in a safe room where they had started.

As they passed the Red Area, the Ladies that seemed so threatening before had paper flower crowns in their hair and chatted with each other playfully. Garry stayed back but Mary slowly approached them, her heart thudding in her chest.

Lady in Red sniffed the air as she came closer, a puzzled and pained expression on her face.

"Mary? You've… changed."

The girl nodded and ran the rest of the distance, hugging her tightly. Her adopted mother in the other world was so reminiscent of the Lady in Red, but it felt so good to see her big sister in person once again. She had missed her old family. Even when she always dreamed of being human, her family of artworks here took good care of her.

The Lady turned to Garry, raising a beautifully painted eyebrow. "Human? It's been a while."

"Er, yeah." Garry nodded quickly and moved towards Ib, almost cowering behind her. She peeked up at him lovingly.

"The Ladies won't chase after you. I made them all flower crowns."

He gave her a skeptical look. "And they don't still play that game?"

"No, they know they're loved, and that's enough. And we leave all doors open so that it's easier for them to get around, that way they don't get all crabby."

He found the idea more terrifying than anything, trying to shrink himself into a smaller ball than he already was.

"You don't get drafts in here?" Garry joked. Ib simply giggled at his silliness.

Deeper and deeper into the gallery they went until they reached the sketchbook. They skipped over the toy box completely, not even mentioning the area and Mary was glad. She did things she was not proud back then and going through all the different areas were bringing up both happy and uncomfortable memories for her.

Ib noticed how tense she was. "Are you okay, Mary?"

The girl took in a deep breath and tried to put on her brightest expression. "I'm fine, Ib."

Eventually, they stood in front of the room sealed with thorns. As soon as Ib touched the door, they immediately retracted to let them in.

Mary felt a lump in her throat as she looked around at the both familiar and unfamiliar sights. The black walls from before were snow white. Storybooks and sketchbooks scattered everywhere in a mess before were placed in neat piles on bookshelves that had probably been brought in and her dolls were arranged in neat rows against the wall.

Garry placed a hand on her back, concerned at how pale she had gotten. "You okay?"

She couldn't speak, feeling like crying all over again.

On the other side of the room hung an octangular painting on the wall. It was taller than the child. Red roses intertwined in the dark background and there was large oval hole in the glass where she supposedly could have come out from. She caressed the golden plaque gently before turning to her visitors.

"Tadaa…" she teased, watching their faces fall in disbelief, and then grief.

They couldn't ignore facts anymore, she truly was a painting. Mary stepped forward to touch the plaque. The label 'Mary' from which she had countlessly looked at before had been changed to 'Sacrifice'. Garry took in a deep breath, walking away from the two, trying to regain his sense of balance.

x

When everyone had calmed down, they sat down under her painting. Ib rested her head on Mary's lap, Mary rested her head on Garry's shoulder, the two of them leaned against the wall. He stroked Ib's head as if she was his own younger sister or daughter, and Mary couldn't release her grip on Ib if she tried. The three of them were silent, contemplating the future ahead.

"What about your parents, Ib?" Garry tried persuading her once again. "Don't you miss them?"

For the first time since they arrived, Ib looked sad. "There's an area of the gallery close to The Fabricated World that acts like windows to the other side. I've seen the two of you, and I see my parents every so often. And I miss them. But I can't be with them anymore, I'm a painting now. I belong to this world. Did you know they have a new baby now? They don't need me anymore."

Garry's hand stilled. "That's not true, Ib. I've met your mother."

She looked up at that. "What?"

"That baby wasn't meant to replace you. Your mom still misses you. She loves you, Ib."

She turned her face away from him and he slowly retracted his hand. "Don't you understand, Garry? I can't leave anymore, I _belong_ to this world."

"We'll find a way."

"Find a replacement, you mean? Ruin someone else's life? The artworks here like me, and I like them too."

He sighed in defeat, knowing there was no happy ending in sight. "There's nothing we can say for you to change your mind?"

"I'm sorry."

He nodded, even though she couldn't see him. "I like all the re-decorations though. You're like the breath of fresh air in this drab place. And everyone seems much nicer and less bloodthirsty than the first time we came around."

Mary shot him a dirty look and he shrugged back. Ib finally giggled again.

"We've talked things out."

He sighed and resumed stroking her hair. "Do you want me to pass any messages to your mother?"

"Tell her... I miss her and I love her, but I'm happy where I am. She has nothing to be worried about. The angels here are beautiful."

Mary and Garry looked at each other in confusion.

"Angels, Ib?" Mary questioned.

"The ladies, the nicer paintings, they're all my guardian angels here. They won't let anything hurt me, even the meaner and older paintings."

"You... realise what it sounds like don't you?"

"I want them to move on, just like the two of you. I want to be remembered fondly, but I don't want to be the cause of your tears."

The two gaped at the little girl, astounded by her maturity. She really had lived through a decade.

"You're really okay here, Ib?" Garry asked.

"Yes." she said without hesitation.

"You're not lonely without normal people?"

"Absolutely not."

Mary bit her lip in hesitation. "Can we... come and visit?"

Ib shook her head. "The Fabricated World doesn't want anymore visitors. Everyone can finally rest in peace here. I've begged many times in the past for them to let you two pass, and this was the first time I was successful. I promised I wouldn't ask anymore, and promises here are sacred. This is goodbye."

X

They spent the rest of their time together talking and cuddling. They talked until they ran out of words and took turns holding her in the silence, squeezing out enough hugs to last them a life time.

As Mary went to give her old family a proper goodbye, Garry told Ib all about his career as a writer, running a bookshop and entertaining Mary during her younger days. He told her all about meeting her parents and the life she couldn't see them live beyond the windows of the gallery. He told her about his future plans, and even though he wasn't sure how, he promised to always take care of Mary.

When she came back, Mary told Ib all about her life in the other world, her beginning at the orphanage, finding out Guertena had already passed away, meeting her new mother, meeting Garry and finally remembering the Gallery with him only three years ago. She told her all about her eccentric family and Europe, the blistering winters of Russia and the summers of Spain. She told her all about her adventures meeting new people and trying all sorts of exotic cuisine.

She told the child and Garry all her hopes and dreams. She talked until her voice was hoarse and her tears had all but dried up. She held the child tight, breathed in her now slightly metallic scent and beamed until she was sure her face would break from the effort.

After what felt like hours, they knew it was time to go. They walked as slowly as they could to their destination, both almost crushing Ib's hands. She squeezed their hands back just as tight. They had promised to come back and visit her, but they knew it wasn't going to be the same at all.

Just like visiting a gravestone.

"No pushing, Ib," Mary said sternly in front of the giant mural and they both laughed. She cuddled her tight before letting Garry hug the girl too. Pulling back, the three looked at each other, not knowing what to say anymore.

Ib gave them a breathtaking smile, pure joy radiating from her face. "You'll be okay, Mary... Garry... and I'll be fine too."

Garry grinned back. "Sure?"

"Absolutely." She gave them both one final hug and they held her back tight. The giant mural of the Fabricated World started shining, the borders disappearing, bright light spilling out signalling it was time to go.

They let her go as slowly as they could, Mary taking Garry's hand in hers and stepping towards the painting together. They climbed in, turned back and gave Ib one last look as she gave them one last smile.

"Take care, I love you both."

The window to the gallery and its Fabricated World vanished from Ib's side and blinding white light surrounded the two people on the other side. They clutched each other close. They didn't know what the future held, but they had tried their best to do what was right and hopefully that was enough.

* * *

 **AN:** The word prompt may seem a little ironic because I had the idea and written story before I chose the word for the prompt, whoops. Cataquack Warrior requested a deconstruction of the Sacrifice fanon ending and the fate of Ib left in the Gallery. I had already written how I think the showdown itself would go between the three in **_Cygnet_** , as well as Garry and Mary's relationship afterwards. I'm so glad I intentionally left Ib's fate as vague though, so I had fun exploring it here :3 The title for the full fic that I will eventually post will be **_Swan Song,_** a sequel and companion piece to Cygnet :P Take care! x


	21. K is for: Kindness

**AN:** Inspired by **_Cataquack Warrior's_** prompt, A Small Act of Kindness. I decided to expand on it.

 _A Small Act of Kindness - In the first main room of the gallery, Ib decides not to risk damaging the ant's portrait, and sets it back in the right place. She cannot go any further, but at least she has made a friend, and maybe that will be enough._

* * *

 _ **K is for: Kindness**_

The ant had been watching the girl sit on the floor for quite some time now, head down, hugging her knees and trembling. They had chatted for a while earlier and the ant really liked her. She was sweet and really nice, even bringing his painting over when he told her how far away it was and how much he wanted to see it.

"What's the matter?" he asked her.

She finally looked up and gave him a smile. She had a really nice, soft smile. "I think I'm stuck here."

Now the ant was puzzled. "Huh? What do you mean? Aren't there supposed to be a lot of doors here?"

"The one that leads out is locked, I think."

"Well, where's the key?"

The girl shrugged and offered her hand, so he jumped abroad. Bringing him closer to her face, she sighed heavily to the side. "I have a feeling it's on the other side of the room I didn't explore."

The ant was starting to get agitated, like she was trying to hide something. "Well why didn't you go explore it?"

She shook her head sadly. "There's a large gap on the floor and I can't cross it without something to step on. Even though it's the only thing I can take off the walls and use, I didn't want to step on and damage your painting."

She was awe-inspiring. "That's really… nice of you! You're so kind! …but why don't you just jump past?"

"It's really wide, I'm scared of falling."

"Then… let me help!"

"Huh?"

"You're my friend, I want to help!"

She blinked at him in confusion. "How?"

"We can use my amazing painting! _I'll_ walk across and find you that key."

The girl instantly sat up. "Are you sure? It's really far."

"Then take me as far as you can!"

She was so nice and he hadn't had a friend in such a long time. If he and his amazing painting can help her, then he would do just that! Shifting the ant from her hand to her shoulder, the girl hesitantly went to retrieve his painting from the wall again.

He looked on in amazement as black, scaly limbs struggled to grab the girl from the jade walls. That was new. He admired the different paintings of all his past friends from his new eye level and wondered where they all went. The ant watched the beautiful story of a metamorphosis until they came to a door, and the rather large gap on the floor the girl had mentioned earlier.

"I can see why you'd rather not jump."

She nodded and placed the painting down. Just as she suspected, it was just large enough to act as a bridge. The ant hopped from her shoulder to the finger she held out as she slowly lowered him towards the painting.

"Are you sure about this?"

One more look of her sad and yet hopeful face spurred him on and instead of replying, he quickly set off to find the key. It was a little far, but nothing he couldn't handle. On the other side of the chasm, behind the door sitting on the floor was the key they were looking for… and a red headless statue seemingly guarding it. Looking up to the walls, he was taken aback by the epilogue to the metamorphosis story.

"Hey, Red..." he greeted with a small voice. Well, he was an ant afterall. "Mind if I take this old thing?"

As soon as he lifted the key onto his back, the statue took a giant step forward and crossed its arms. The ant nervously scuttled a few inches back but it didn't seem to follow. It was probably just observing. Maybe?

"Well, nice chatting with you! Take care!"

He was worried it wouldn't fit until the key slid easily underneath the wooden door. As soon as he was back in the hallway, he heard a gasp from the little girl and he danced victoriously inside. Hopefully she would smile again! The little ant made his way over as fast as he could and hopped onto her outstretched hand.

"Thank you so much!" she exclaimed.

He knew the happiness on her face made it all worth it, and he was right. "Yeap! No problem."

A snarl ringed through the hallway before the door on the other side flew off its hinges onto the wall. The headless statue walked out and turned its body to face them. Paralysed, the girl stumbled back and tripped on her own feet. The ant didn't know what to do.

Red thrust its arms out and marched towards them, using the ant painting as a bridge. Scrambling out of the hallway, the two friends froze when they heard a huge crash. The little girl peeked back into hallway by the door frame and gasped. The ant did the same and screamed.

"My painting!"

x

Ib glanced at the ant on her finger and her heart filled with sadness.

"I'm really sorry about your painting, I should have saved it before... I didn't mean for it to..."

The ant could only look on and repeat the words as if it was in a trace. "My beautiful painting... oh my poor painting..."

The child could only apologise profusely as she set him down, grabbed the key and slipped away. He didn't seem to notice. She didn't know what else to say.

She could only vow not to hurt another painting in the gallery.

* * *

 **AN:** Yeahhhh and we all know how that story ends. Sorry Ib.

Quick question: What does the number 13 remind you of?

I was thinking of writing about Friday the 13th for the chapter but I'm not too keen on it (4 Horsemen and Lucky 8 are enough thanks) and was wondering if anyone else had any ideas.

Take care x


	22. L is for: Lineage

_**L is for: Lineage**_

Garry groaned at the puzzle and scratched the back of his head, glaring in frustration at the smug entertainer inside the portrait frame.

"When were you born? How the heck should I know?"

Out of all the books he had read in this place, he hadn't come across any that focused specifically on Guertena's art yet. This was a waste of time, he just wanted to reunite with the two little girls as fast as he could. There was something a little off about the newest addition to their party.

The young man slumped against the wall behind him and crossed his arms, staring at the colourful juggling balls for a while. His mind started to wander. Garry recalled a story his grandfather had once told him about going to the circus with his own grandfather, how his favourite part was the juggling act.

Apparently, his great-great-grandfather married his great-great-grandmother after a rather brief but sweet courtship late in their lives. They were both widowed but found happiness in each other one rainy morning in the park.

His grandfather was fascinated by the old man, a quiet and reserved artist that still took the time to know his wife's children and grandchildren. They bonded over long morning walks and a trip to the circus once. He was only a small boy when his family moved to Japan a few years later, and he never got the chance to see the old man again.

History often bored Garry in school, but he couldn't help but be enthralled by his own family lineage that supposedly originated from Germany. He often wondered about the old man, what kind of person he was and what sort of experiences he had been through. His grandfather had never mentioned his name either.

Taking in a deep breath, the young man did a few simple calculations. His grandfather's current age… the age he went to the circus… what was the year at the time? Coming to a conclusion, he told Juggling the answer.

"W-R-O-N-G."

Garry laughed at his own ludicrous logic but still adjusted the number by a year or so. He had nothing else to go off on.

"C-O-R-R-E-C-T" the painting boomed, throwing out a ball of paint from his juggling balls which Garry barely caught. Standing dumbfounded on the spot, Garry gaped at the man. It was all complete guesswork… and he was right?

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

 _Weiss Guertena._ The reason he came to the exhibit was because the name struck something in him, a ring of familiarity even though he had never heard of the artist before. The juggler paid him no heed and went about his business.

Garry gulped and moved on. _A_ _coincidence_ , he repeatedly assured himself as he went to place the ball of paint on its stand in the other room, _it was just simply a coincidence._

X

He gasped as he found a familiar looking painting illustrated on the next page.

"Ah, this one..."

 ** _Juggling (6223)_**

 _A work based on a juggler he saw at the circus with his grandchild. As it is extremely rare for Guertena to use real people as models, this piece is highly valuable._

Ib looked up at his rather pale face. "What's wrong, Garry?"

"Ah, no, it's just that I saw it on the lower floor." Garry shakily smiled and took her hand, placing the book back into the shelf. She gave him a short squeeze. "Shall we get going, Ib?"

She nodded. "I saw some stairs, but a statue was blocking it."

"Alright, let's go!"

His grandfather had spoken of an obscure, quiet and reserved artist his own grandmother married, supposedly famous in certain circles for his unconventional style and subjects. They went to the circus and witnessed a juggling performance together… and one was depicted on the hallways with a similar history.

But it all had to be a coincidence, there was no way that old man was Weiss Guertena himself... right?

* * *

 **AN:** Ayy let the deconstruction begin. A few years back, there was a theory that Garry is Guertena's grandson mentioned in the book because he knew the date of Juggling not by reading the book (as the book is in Ib's area) but by the player's command. It still doesn't make sense as Juggling is _not_ one of his later works, even though he had a grandson at the time, and he is confirmed to be deceased before the game even begins :3

We don't know Garry's exact age, but he's way too young to be the grandson mentioned in the book. However, that doesn't mean we can completely exclude the theory of them being related hohoho :3c

Ayy that was fun. Take care x


	23. Eleven Years is a Bit Too Much

**AN:** Inspired by **_Emerial_** reminding me just how large the age gap between my favourite ship is :'3 Bless. My personal favourite headcanon is 9 years, but the fandom favourite is 11 so let's roll with that.

* * *

 _ **Eleven Years is a Bit Too Much**_

The woman opened her eyes when she noticed the empty space beside her. _That's odd_ , she thought, before hearing muffled clinks of a mug accidentally hitting other mugs coming from downstairs. She smiled at the sound. His clumsiness had always been endearing to her.

Quickly slipping on her bathrobe, she made her way to the kitchen, slightly concerned about her missing husband. She found him pouring himself some warm water by moonlight, obvious bags under his eyes. When she switched on the lights he jumped a little, but smiled at her in greeting regardless.

"Are you alright, papabear?"

He chuckled. "I'm fine, mamabear."

Ib used to call them that out of affection when she was younger, but now they used the nicknames to have fun making her cringe. Somehow in their private moments it still stuck.

"Want me to make you some warm milk?"

She took the mug from him when he nodded. "Sounds good."

They settled into a comfortable silence when she had finished and sat together at the dinner table. The man took small sips of his hot drink. The clock ticked onto one in the morning and the woman placed a hand on his back. "What's on your mind?"

"I was thinking about… well…"

The soft words lulled back into silence and she had to prompt him again. "What is it, dear?"

He took a larger sip to finish his drink, inadvertently giving himself a milk moustache. The woman had to hold back a laugh. "Ib's growing up to be a fine girl. Weirdly superstitious, but amazing nonetheless. She's also very mature for her age. It's just…"

Leaning on his arm, the woman let out a few giggles. He really was adorable being so serious with milk decorating the top of his upper lip. "Bringing a boy home this early is a bit too much for you?"

She knew him too well. "He's not a boy, he's practically an adult. Eleven years her senior, it's a bit… too much, don't you think?"

She sighed at the direction of this conversation. "Of course I agree with you, but he's a sweet boy."

"Too sweet… and he's _not_ a boy."

"A beautiful boy, pretty _and_ handsome."

"Darling, _please._ "

"I'm joking, dear, of course I'm concerned too. However, we're not really in a position to judge, we're childhood sweethearts too."

He crossed his arms and sighed, finally pushing his mug away. "We were just friends until we started dating at sixteen, not _nine._ And I'm not a whole decade older than you!"

"Well they're just friends too."

"Ib is too happy when the house phone rings."

She held his face gently as she turned it to face her. Using her thumb to wipe the excess milk, she stuck it into her mouth to lick it off. He gulped loudly. Despite her actions, her expression was not seductive, it was firm.

"Ib tells us everything they talk about in those conversations _and_ he wants her to pass the phone to us when they're done."

He tried looking away but she had an iron grip. "M-Meeting up at the coffee shop…"

"—that we always tag along with! That boy—" she groaned at his pout, "—fine, that young man makes delightful conversation and always gives me such good fashion advice."

" _Mamabear_ ," the man moaned, his expression turning sad immediately. "Don't tell me you've got a crush on him too?"

The woman brought his face closer to hers to give him a soft peck and grinned. "Maybe? You're way too fun to tease, papabear."

"And you're supposed to be the strict parent," he grumbled, turning a pretty shade of pink at their close proximity. "Why are you so relaxed about this anyway? He could be a pervert, or a kidnapper, or both!"

"Because I find my baby smiling a lot easier these days. She's a lot more passionate about reading before going to that art museum and meeting him. Because he's open about their communication and willing to make himself vulnerable to make us trust him.

"Because I _am_ watching them like a _hawk_ , and making sure he doesn't get too close to my baby for at least another eleven years, but for now I want to see what else he can do. I want to see if he can make her aspire even higher."

"Isn't that our job," he whispered sullenly. She finally let his face go and tugged him up from the chair by the hand, grabbing his mug and placing it into the sink.

"Of course it is, but it doesn't hurt to have some help along the way. Garry seems harmless, but we'll keep an eye on him, okay?"

He finally cracked a smile and hugged her, a silent _thank you_ for always cheering him up, reassuring him that they were a team. "Okay, mamabear."

"C'mon papabear, let's go back to bed."

* * *

 **AN:** Blissfully happy married couples make me so happy. Tbh, I would be _very_ concerned too if I was in their position. And I skim over this issue a lot in other fics making them meet up when she's older but I decided to explore this idea further.

Disclaimer: Maybe as an almost-adult and not a parent I'm not psychologically mature enough to think about this properly but these are just my thoughts anyway. Hopefully I will grow, learn and mature further in the future. Thoughts on 11 please? :3

Take care x


	24. A Dozen of Apples

**Warning:** this one is a bit disturbing.

* * *

 _ **A Dozen of Apples**_

The apples here taste like wood. They're disgusting and bitter and threaten to break her teeth, but she chews as hard as she can and swallows anyway. The famished have no mind to complain. There's scarce, _edible_ food to be found within these halls, so the starving child takes what she can and eats what she can.

She's so hungry.

And so thirsty.

And all she's had to eat are these apples, she must have had a dozen by now.

For reasons she can't explain all the food art are unlike the more sentient art. They can't come out of their frames and she can't stick her hand inside to nip off a bit of frosting or two or ten. She can't pinch off pieces of the cake or drink the coffee that somehow still radiates off heat. The smell of Earl Grey tea especially haunts her when she gets too close to the lower levels. She tries not to cry when it reminds her of home.

She's so hungry.

The girl contemplates drinking from the vases, but most of them are empty from her earlier journey to find an exit. She worries that Eternal Blessing wouldn't replenish if she misuses it.

She now knows there was no Garry, that her relief blinded her from the truth. In her brief moment of happiness, she followed a shadow of her friend back into the darkness of the Cursed Gallery. The next thing she knew, he was forever gone. His sleeping figure was stone cold and his soft skin had turned hard as marble.

She's _so_ hungry.

At one point she started dry heaving. She was so scared because all that came up was a sour, slimy greenish thing. She could only cough and spit and heave a bit more until there was nothing left. A few drops of blood would mark the end of the episode.

…But she's not going to die from it. Her rose keeps her alive. She stays near Eternal Blessing and makes sure the rose is happy and well. Perhaps she'll become a shell of her former self, an existence that doesn't need food, only water for her flower. Maybe if she stays a bit longer she could become a painting like Garry became a statue and she won't even need her rose anymore.

Although she was alive, she was sure this wasn't living. The child had occasionally contemplated shredding her rose apart like what Mary did to Garry, but the thought of never seeing her mother and father again always stopped her at the very last second.

God help her, she's so hungry…

A sudden chill races through the gallery. There is a spark in the air and a tingle down her spine. Ib looks up from the stool she was perched on and her mouth suddenly salivates. Intoxicating scents fill her nostrils and her stomach growls again.

Fresh bread.

"Hello?"

Cranberries.

"Is anyone out here?"

 _Meat_. Fresh meat has arrived.

She stands up a little too fast and wobbles slightly, colours and static blurring her vision.

"H-Hello?" she calls back shyly.

She's so hungry.

And they smell so well fed.

And there was no way she was not going to trade places with that.

* * *

 **AN:** Artsy chapter again, opposite to Joy. We had **Dark!** Garry earlier so I present, **Dark!** Ib. Hunger… makes desperation worse? o_o I half considered making the ending even more ambiguous and disturbing but I was like 'Nah you've done enough damage here, cannibalism is never cute lol.'

I hope the spam of chapters didn't overwhelm anyone lol, take your time reading… and reviewing… *wink wonk* The next chapter will come next Saturday, and (hopefully if I don't slack) we're going back to normal single chapter updates :3

Happy back to school to everyone going back to school! Take care x


	25. Thirteen Years in the Making

_**Thirteen Years in the Making**_

Thirteen is a rather popular number, from what I've read. Some people regard it as unlucky, some people take it as their lucky number. Some use it to mark the transition from child to adulthood.

I'm not sure if any of that really applies to us though.

When I was born, I was not surrounded by smiling, cooing faces and wrapped in the arms of the woman who birthed me. I opened my eyes to an unsmiling man standing on the other side of the room, his demeanor cold and calculating. No matter how much I cried, he would not come to comfort me. He simply stared out of the window, lost to his own thoughts whilst I struggled to form mine.

By the first anniversary of my birth, I was already winning awards for my beauty. Numerous competitions declared me as the undefeated champion and I found happiness there. For a girl who wasn't showered with such praise at home (or hardly any words at all), the attention felt good. Their admiring gazes and stunned expressions made me just a little bit giddy inside.

However, whenever I looked at that man, all the giddiness fades and sorrow takes its place. Anger lurks beneath the surface too, along with a hint of bitterness. Does he love me, or does he not love me? For a man supposedly famous for his expression in the arts, he was a rather difficult individual to gauge.

Over the next few years, the number of my siblings increase exponentially. Not everyone shares my sentiment though and some don't really care. They win awards for him, make him famous, then are left to their own devices. It matters not to them whether or not he adores them as much as their crowds do.

For a girl as self-conscious and insecure as I am though, that methodology just doesn't sit well with me. I _want_ to know if my father loves me, or why he hates me.

So when I was seven, I asked him directly. My voice ran clear in the air. His spine straightened from his slouched posture and he slowly turned to face me. Our gazes locked onto each other. The wine glass slipped from his fingers. He himself turned ghostly white. As much as I loved the adoration from my admirers, the fear in his eyes strangely _thrilled_ me. The man hurriedly escaped from the room as if the hounds of hell themselves were chasing him.

He was not my father, I realise that now. I was nothing more than a prized stallion to him, and I suppose he was my master. Just like his wine glass that day, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Unlike glass however, I recovered swiftly. My heart hardened into stone.

The decades pass by in a blur. Many more of my siblings were born, yet some were lost in their conception stages. Some were lost to thieves and accidents and even time itself, decaying due to their lack of immunity to the harsh environment. Thirteen years ago to this day, that man passed on too, leaving behind an unprecedented legacy. We were all astounded, myself most of all.

For a man who was undoubtedly self-centered, we would never believe that he would have left us a beautiful home like this. Everyone has their own place and space. Everyone is satisfied with how things turned about, from being crammed together in cramp studios to being on display, ready to be admired.

The youngest, however, keeps on complaining. She wants to see her father, she wants to see the world, she wants to keep on playing when it's time to rest. As one of the oldest, I take it as my duty to keep her entertained. She reminds me a lot of myself during my early days.

Does thirteen mark the transition between childhood and adulthood? Not for this one it doesn't. Perhaps the number does have some credibility as an omen however, for the first visitors in thirteen long years have just set foot into our domain.

* * *

 **AN:** I think I've hit a block and school's not helping lmao. Hope you're all doing well x


	26. Fourteen Ladies in the Room

_**Fourteen Ladies in the Room**_

.: :.

Lady in Red sniffed the air and prowled the exhibition area, the thrill of the hunt still thrumming through her veins.

Where did the sweet thing go? She was _so_ cute and fragile, like a little rosebud, far too tempting to tear apart. A deep chuckle broke her thoughts and she scowled, too preoccupied to deal with the jackass today.

"I don't suppose _you_ know where our visitor went, do you?"

Smoking Gentleman smirked and purposely blew a puff of smoke in her face, provoking another growl. "You're having fun, find her yourself."

She rolled her eyes and sashayed away.

.: :.

Lady in Blue stretched and yawned, sprawling on the short steps that lead to the grey vase. After all the excitement earlier, she was still aching for visitors, wondering if Mary would come to see her soon. She hated being cooped up, especially after the new toys tricked her into the room.

Goodness, why do the door knobs in this gallery need to be so high up? It was incredibly irritating.

Pushing herself off and pacing about, she daydreamed about the handsome man that had stumbled into her earlier. His face, his screams… She couldn't wait to see him again.

.: :.

Lady in Green fumed as the two companions walked past without even sparing her a glace. How dare they not be affected by her incredible beauty! Was it because she wasn't as popular as her cousin, Lady in Red? Or was it because she wasn't as lavishly decorated as some of her sisters?

Rage surged through the painting and propelled her forward, breaking through her glass prison. Turning back, their combined looks of shock and the high-pitch scream of the man exhilarated her.

 _Yes,_ they would pay for not giving her the attention she deserves.

Laughing maniacally, she chased them.

.: :.

Lady in Yellow noticed the congregation around the Centre room. The air was thick with blood-lust and the delicious scent of their guests, even her apathetic self was attracted. One of them spotted and ushered her over.

"What's all this?"

"They're inside, we're breaking the back wall. Be a doll and help, baby girl."

She was well known as the final work in their series. But if Lady in Red was the epitome of beauty, Lady in Blue of Grace, Lady in Green of Envy… she was strength reincarnate. She groaned at the work but broke the damn thing regardless.

.: :.

Watching from the sidelines, the Hang Man felt the slightest twinge of pity for the two friends desperately searching for the exit. Sheer panic was written all over their features, even the little one who reminded him of a blank slate.

The fourteen ladies scattered in the room and the various others around the gallery are relentless and, even to him, terrifying. Whilst the outside world only knew of Lady in Red, their master painted numerous other unreleased versions, his views on the composition of a woman.

With such diversity of personality, the painting wondered if it was all accurate.

* * *

 **AN:** Writing drabbles (exactly 100 words) is both fun and challenging. This is my take on the Ladies: different colours are cousins and the same colours are sisters lmao.

 **New update schedule:** first Thursday of every month, unless there a **_single_** review for the latest chapter. At least one. Then I'll update within that week if I have the time. I'm really tired of no feedback and I'm really tired in general these days so writing motivation doesn't come by easily. Reviews really help though, as well as seeing people favourite and follow this story collection.

Please review! Take care! x

P.S. RedSmoke lives again :')


	27. M is for: Memories

**AN:** Please listen to Ib's main theme memories in the background.

 _ **M is for: Memories**_

Nothing is ever as beautiful as a memory, he firmly decides later on in his life.

He remembers a time when his mother was kind, when she was soft and warm like mothers were supposed to be. He remembers how she praised his sketches, comforted him after terrifying nightmares and stayed up late into the night with him, caring for his during those terrible fevers that haunted his early childhood.

He still remembers the soft scent of her delicate powder as she held him close in their one room apartment, her tears dampening his cheeks and voice trembling in his ear. She promised him they would do better than mouldy walls and scraps of stale bread for dinner, if they even had any. She stroked his hair and promised to give him a better life than being relentlessly chased and bullied by older boys on the streets.

His mother kissed his brow and _swore_ to him that they would find their way after the death of his father and their descent into debt and harsh poverty.

He still isn't sure if she kept that promise.

Their apartment transformed into a beautiful mansion, her soft powder gave way to sharp perfume and his absent father figure was traded for a monster.

Nothing is ever as beautiful as a memory, he concedes as he watches his mother scrutinise the details in his work, trying to ascertain their meanings. He takes in her extravagant dress, her cold façade and empty title as Queen of Society.

He notices the tired lines she desperately tries to cover with cosmetics over the years. His heart twinges with the crow feet kissing the edges of her eyes and the grey streaks decorating her hair. Her face is impassive as she looks on at his art, but her eyes tell him everything.

Pride, as she awed over Abyss of the Deep. Sadness, as she gazed as A Well Meaning Hell. Regret, when they both came to Embodiment of Spirit.

"I see," she quietly murmurs to herself. "How long have the petals been falling?"

He shrugs, not wanting to answer. "Long enough."

For him, nothing is ever as beautiful as a memory. Nostalgia would glaze the events with a rose-coloured tint, giving them a softer and hazier quality. There, youth lasts. Happiness is well within reach. Intangible truths can twisted into something more comforting than the reality.

But for was his mother, memories were nothing but unspeakable horrors and tragedies. They taunted her, jested about her mistakes. It was better to lock them away and never speak of them again.

And for that, despite everything they had gone through together, he would try to give her something better to reminisce about.

* * *

 **AN:** I wanted to write something that was a bit happier in Guertena's childhood since the muse is sweet like a lullaby, but it turned dark pretty quickly. So I tried to make the ending more bittersweet. I dunno, I'm really rusty, haven't been writing much these days.

 **New title for 52? :3 Hohoho ye.**

Yeap. Someone informed me that because of the site's programming when it comes to searches and filters, 52 doesn't always show up due to the nature of its name. Therefore, I decided to change it. There'll still be 52 pieces, and it's still a collection of stories that tries different takes on different theories to make things interesting or give a unique perspective.

Passacaglia is a type of musical form that is kind of like a series of variations on top of another musical pattern. A bit complicated I know, but I think it kind of fits 52's nature. It's always been a hot mess of a fanfic, but I hope someone somewhere out there still enjoys reading it as I do writing it ;)

Please review and pls take care x


	28. N is for: Names

**AN:** Again, inspired by _**Cataquack Warrior's** _ prompting :)

* * *

 _ **N is for: Names**_

Of course we're better.

Of course.

Of course…

Are we though?

Of course!

Hah! Of course we're superior! We know exactly who we are, who we're supposed to be, what we're supposed to represent.

Our purpose is clear. Smoking Gentleman smokes his pipe, Bashful Glance never quite meets your eyes. Cyclops Smile gives her eerie one-eyed grin. It's simple, it's wonderful. And it's _superior._

Abyss of the Deep?

A world where wonders and mysteries await.

A Well-Meaning Hell?

A contradiction born from love and discipline, education for a vision that the receiver never quite grasped.

And Untitled? Is it untitled because Master does not want to name it, or because that is its name? Or has its name been lost to the ages, and is now simply forgotten?

Of… of course! We're better, of course.

Are we really?

Human names are so bothersome. How does one know what sort of characteristics a child will manifest later on in their life? How does one choose a name for a babe that will define them for a lifetime? What if it just becomes ironic later on?

That's true.

Very true.

Are they the way they are _because_ of their name or because they grow into their name?

Huh?

Do they grow into their name or does their name grow into them?

So… do we grow into our names, our titles, just like them? Are we born into our roles, just like the humans?

There's no need for a comparison, don't upset me.

I read that names are prayers spoken.

Don't lie to me, you can't read.

Fine… Mary read it to me.

Then again… Lady taking the newspaper, Strained Ear… aren't they too literal?

What about Mary?

What _about_ Mary?

Isn't her title… a human name?

Well it's no wonder then.

What about Couple?

What _about_ Couple?

How would our dear sister feel about the new name?

Isn't it what she chose for herself when she decided to leave us?

So… which is better? Subtle or direct? Something with a definitive meaning or a multitude of possibilities?

Our painting titles… definitely.

Yes.

Hm.

Definitely.

* * *

 **AN:** Honestly, I don't know what this is, I just hope it's enjoyable to read lol. It feels so good to be back ahhh and I hope to continue this exercise in consistency :') I do hope that new and old readers can stick with me and give comments to let me know how the collection is doing. Is it repetitive and boring? Feel free to tell me off! Do you enjoy reading the different takes or deconstruction of popular theories? I'd really love to know so that I can always improve.

Take care x


	29. O is for: Origins

_**O is for: Origins**_

The woman's hands stilled as she turned to regard her daughter from under the large brim of the sunhat. It was far too hot for such a discussion, but the young child's curiosity was notoriously difficult to sate. The girl will not leave until she gets her answers and the woman doesn't want to leave until she finishes tending to her long-neglected garden.

Stubbornness was a trait they both shared.

"What a strange question, what brought this on?"

The girl shifted uncomfortably at the memories and scuffled her shoes on the cement, accidentally smudging dirt everywhere. Sitting a little straighter on her stool, the woman tried to meet her daughter's eyes.

"Ib? Is everything alright?"

Her gut twisted at the wet eyes and faintly red nose, something she should have caught onto earlier if she wasn't so distracted by her irritation at the sun beaming down obnoxiously or the sweat rolling down her back.

"We had a science class today… and then they were talking about how only albinos have red eyes…" the child held up a lock of dark brown hair and her brows furrowed in confusion. "I don't think we're albinos."

"Hm, I think you're right."

"Some kids called me a lab rat… because of my fair skin and red eyes—"

"—they what?" the woman hissed, back straight as a rod.

"The teacher did tell them off, said maybe it was genetics."

There was a pregnant pause.

The woman took off her gardening gloves and beckoned her child closer, cupping her face tenderly. Her baby girl was growing up too fast in too harsh of an environment. She was a blooming flower that needed to be protected and cherished, not ridiculed on her looks. Her thumb stroked the chubby cheek once, twice before giving it a gentle tap.

"Do you like our eyes, Ib?"

It was another common trait they shared.

"I like yours, Mama."

"And I like yours too. So their words don't matter one bit, do they?"

Her daughter's blank face melted into a shy smile and she nodded. "Still, it made me wonder. Why _do_ we have red eyes? Who did we get it from, Mama?"

A strained smile made its way onto the woman's face and she pulled away, concentrating on putting her gloves back on. "You know I don't know the answer to that, Ib."

The pregnant pause came back.

"S-Sorry, I thought you might remember bits and pieces."

"Too young, dear. Much younger than you are now."

"So, nothing?"

"Hm, not nothing…"

There was something comforting about having fine earth between her fingers, watching the growth of a seedling that she had so carefully tended to. It made everything feel more tangible, less abstract, that there are and _will be_ fruits born from her love and labour.

The little girl watched her mother toil endlessly, quietly allowing her to sift and sort out her own thoughts. Hidden by the sunhat, she could hardly see her expression.

"All I remember about your grandfather is… his eyes. Deep, like the ocean. Captivating and… sometimes deadly."

She could get lost in Master's eyes.

 _But he could only ever drown her._

"I don't remember your grandmother at all…"

 _Lies._

"But… she probably had the magical red eyes, maybe."

 _All lies._

Glancing at her daughter, the child stood stock still, guilt and sadness painting her delicate face.

"I'm so—"

"Don't be," she chuckled and gave a reassuring wink. "I'm fine. Run along now, it's too hot to be outside. I'll start on lunch in a short while."

Once her daughter was out of earshot, she let out a deep sigh.

It was the closest to the truth, the easiest tale to spin.

 _An orphan living on the streets, surviving on odd jobs._

 _Then she fell in love and everything worked itself out._

If only it was that simple.

She still misses her family, despite their sarcastic remarks, all that whining from the youngest sibling, the pranks with all the dolls and paints. The woman wanted to see them again, even for a little bit, while her husband remained none the wiser.

Pulling a particularly stubborn weed out, she stared at the space left behind, the unearthed dirt from underneath and lingering roots torn apart. She chucked it aside and scoffed. Thinking about her origins always made her feel a little hollow inside.

* * *

 **AN:** I didn't get to add it in (didn't seem appropriate), but this takes place about a year **before** the game :3 I can't remember, when do kids start learning about genes and all that fancy stuff? Is it too early at 8? :o Lol nvm (facepalm).


	30. P is for: Parallels

**AN:** Inspired by **_Cataquack Warrior's_** amazing prompt _**Three Roses, Never Meeting**_.

 **Warning:** This one has some disturbing and gory imagery, I am so sorry (to Garry in particular)

* * *

 _ **P is for: Parallels**_

United, they stand.

Divided, they fall.

But with parallel roads and fates, they had little choice.

When their paths never crossed, they never stood a chance.

That fateful day, three innocent roses were ripped apart.

-x-

Ib tried to crack an eye open, but the relentless pounding in her head only worsened. A soothingly cool hand placed itself on her forehead, silencing the whimpers. Uncaring fingers ran through locks caked with blood, all the way down to the tangled and matted ends of her hair. The young girl sobbed at the harsh sting on her scalp.

"It's alright darling, just go back to sleep."

The red demon hummed a tuneless melody, voice both comforting and eerie. Her embrace was not warm, her perfume sharp and metallic, the strength in her arms bruising.

But Ib had always been a good girl. Her eyes slipped shut and she did as she was told.

-x-

The painting woman leaned over to kiss his blue-tinged lips softly, gently as she caressed his exposed, quivering heart. She was swooning with happiness, with the knowledge he was _all hers_ and will now only ever be hers.

The man was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. A vision of near death, white, blue and purple streaked with hints of rosy red. It made her shiver.

"Do you love me?"

He whined softly, she giggled. Her sharp nails stroked fragile vessels, threatening to slice them open. It would be so easy, just as she ripped open his chest.

A barely discernible nod made her squeal happily. She nuzzled further into his side, fingers grasping the weak muscle in a tight squeeze.

His blue rose, mercilessly shredded before, valiantly held on to the last petal by a single fiber, its silent plea rudely ignored.

-x-

Everything hurt here, why did everything hurt? The sunlight burned, every step taken felt like knifes stabbing her soles. She could only plead at the anxious onlookers with her tears and half-choked sobs, her voice having long abandoned her.

 _"_ _Dad…dy… why? Please…"_

 ** _If she wants to go so badly, let her._**

Where were the fun and games, the ice-cream and cotton candy snow, the family that she longed for? Where was her father in the throngs of all these people? Where did they all come from? Why wouldn't _anyone_ help her?

Her dress was torn, her shoes gone and feet bloody. Weren't dogs supposed to be cute and fluffy? Wasn't the world supposed to be kind to children? Why did everything sharp snag onto her, why did everything with teeth bite on to her?

She could only gape and cry and mouth the questions she wanted to ask.

Her throat had started closing in on itself.

 ** _Let her find out the difficult way…_**

There were black spots in her vision, a rushing in her ears, she wanted to crawl out of her own skin, her heart wouldn't stop pounding, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't breathe—

 ** _What it means for her heart to be fabricated._**

* * *

 **Three Roses, Never Meeting** \- The three roses of the story have their separate endings, having never met. Ib is claimed by the Lady in Red as her child, the Lady in Blue steals Garry's heart (both **figuratively** and literally), and Mary escapes to the outside world, and must find her way through that new world alone.

* * *

 **AN:** I've always had this headcanon that Mary would be an extremely fragile human being if she ever made it across the Fabricated World, due to her precious state of being a painting. Severely immunocompromised (having no exposure to antigens before), asthmatic, extremely photosensitive, too easily affected by changes in temperature. And since her heart is "fabricated," the anatomy may be abnormal (congenital defects) or conduction problems may be present, leading to arrhythmias or fibrillations.

^When a nerdy med student writes fanfic

l m a o

 **P.S.** New update schedule: Every Sunday :)


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